


A Silky Nightmare

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathroom Sex, Bipolar Disorder, Blow Jobs, Bottom Isak Valtersen, Confident Isak Valtersen, First Time Blow Jobs, Forbidden Love, Friends With Benefits, Heavy Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Interrupted Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Marijuana, Masturbation, POV Even Bech Næsheim, Phone Sex, Pining, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Identity, Sexuality, Smut, Top Even Bech Næsheim, a lot of it, being outed, in the closet, kind of?, undiagnosed bipolar disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-25 20:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13842234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Getting over old love is hard. Finding new love—with someone you’re not allowed to—is even harder.





	1. drowning

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, THE BIGGEST THANK YOU to lovely Amalie, who created some dope dope dope [art for this fic](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/post/171443681994/a-silky-nightmare-by-fxckxxp-art-by-amalie) as part of the Skam Big Bang. She also gave me the prompt AND was super helpful answering all of my Norway specific questions. You rock, Amalie. (Go check out her instragram!!!! [@anchoram](https://www.instagram.com/anchoram/?hl=en))
> 
> And ANOTHER HUGE THANK YOU to my lovely, lovely beta [LiliMane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LiliMane/pseuds/LiliMane) // [isxev](http://isxev.tumblr.com/) (on tumblr). I love you to the moon and back again you sweet angel.
> 
>  
> 
> **This is an AU set in the summer of 1970 based on the coordinates in the[season 3 Skam header,](http://skam.p3.no/sesong/3/) which leads to [Kjærlighetskarusellen](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kj%C3%A6rlighetskarusellen) (the love carousel): a public urinal doubling as a secret meeting spot for gay men before homosexual acts were decriminalized in Norway.**
> 
>  
> 
> It’s a lot more… sexual than I planned. But turns out it’s hard to write about a sexual awakening without sex, so. Here ya go. Prepare yourself for angst.
> 
> Some ends are left untied or up for interpretation, but such is life. I’m extremely excited/nervous to share this with you all.

**SUMMER. OSLO. 1970.**

Even’s always been _just curious enough_ to look, but never really curious enough to do anything about it. He likes the way boys’ muscles move under their skin when they’re running and reaching and turning. Likes the way boys smell when they’ve got on a leather jacket and have just smoked a joint. Some of them have pretty eyes. Pretty jaws. Pretty lips that he’s thought about kissing.

But he’s never _had_ to do anything about it because one, it’s not like he can go around kissing boys without getting beat to shit and two, he’s equally as comfortable kissing girls, so why bother with the stress.

It’s not like he needs added stress.

So it’s more of a footnote, really, that Even tucks away into the corner of his mind. That he thinks about every so often when someone _just his type_ sits next to him on the tram or squeezes behind him in the record store or takes his order at a pick-up counter. Because, oh yes, Even Bech Næsheim _definitely_ has a type. And it has less to do with what they look like, he’s noticed, and more to do with just the way they _are._ He hasn’t pinned it down yet, but not every pretty boy catches his eye.

But again, it’s not like he thinks about it for more than two seconds. He has a girlfriend, anyway. 

Or, had.

It’s weird to be here at this party without her, honestly. Even keeps reaching for Sonja—like she’s behind him—but spins around to find nothing. No cute, short blonde hair. No beaming white smile with sparkling eyes. No frustrated but endearing little pout of her lips when he teases her. She’s usually what keeps Even sane at these things—because although Even may seem like a flaming extrovert, he can only handle large groups of people for so long.

He relaxes slightly when he sees Jonas from across the room, who raises his bushy eyebrows at him and pinches the joint behind his ear with a quick nod of his head towards the basement door.

They haven’t known each other long, and their encounters have been short—usually small talk over a smoke in front of the record store after work—but Even trusts Jonas. He can pick up on Even’s mood easily, which is no small feat, and honestly, Jonas probably feels bad for Even. Newly heartbroken at a new job—the cluelessness written all over his face. So that’s probably why he invited him. Even doesn’t let the pity weight on him, though. He’s glad to be out.

Even bounces down the stairs a few steps behind Jonas into the basement, which is just as crowded but still somehow more intimate. The music is less upbeat, less bassy. The people are quieter, too—talking in small groups amongst themselves. A sweet smelling haze lines the walls, and everyone’s eyes are low and red.

Jonas plops into a bean bag chair next to a round coffee table and Even squeezes on the couch next to a boy with straight blonde hair, who he’s surprised to see Jonas nod at and hand the joint to first after sparking it and taking a drag.

“All good, man?” Jonas asks Even, not giving him a moment to respond before continuing. “This is Magnus,” he gestures over to the boy Even’s sitting next to. “I live with him.”

“Hi,” Magnus inhales, passing the joint to Even with one hand and extending his other awkwardly for a handshake, forcing Even to take both at the same time with folded elbows on the tight couch like a baby t-rex.

“Even,” he introduces himself with a little smile, wasting no time and taking a long, full hit to dissolve some of the awkwardness that always comes with meeting new people—which soon vanishes in a flash of blonde curls and long limbs as the joint in Even’s lips is tenderly and swiftly being plucked from them. It’s finding a new home under the cutest cupid's bow and angled, hollow cheeks. Even’s stomach does a somersault when he sees him—stepping out from behind the couch with his prize and raising his eyebrows at Even while practically falling into Jonas’s lap beside him on the bean bag. He takes a long, slow hit and keeps his eyes locked on Even like a challenge.

He looks like an angel.

Jonas jabs the newcomer in the side (hard enough to make him wince) with his elbow, sending smoke out in little coughs as he catches his breath.

“Dick,” Angel Boy coughs again, holding the joint out of Jonas’s reach playfully.

But Jonas snatches it anyway, reaching over Angel Boy’s torso so they’re flush together for a second before breaking away.

Even notices Angel Boy’s breath hitch.

“This is Isak, my other roommate,” Jonas nods his head back to Angel Boy, fishing in his pocket for a lighter to respark the joint that’s died in the middle of their debacle. “Even,” he nods again towards Even, and Angel Boy’s eyes follow.

Angel Boy—or, Isak, all but ignores him after a quick once-over. Reaches back for Jonas’s joint instead, plucking it out of his mouth the same way he did Even’s.

After a minute of glances from Isak to Jonas while small talk between passes of the joint continues, Even _knows,_ and a strange desire curls experimentally somewhere deep in his stomach. A flash of green, too, for some reason—in his gut and behind his eyes.

And it doesn’t fucking help that, yes, this boy is exactly Even’s type. To the T. And Even doesn’t realize it right away, but those blonde curls and green eyes and pointy features are screaming to be loved by him.

He’s both smaller and bigger than Even, if that makes sense. Shorter, but larger in his frame. Smaller in his voice. In his words and in his laugh. Bigger in his smile. In his facial expressions and body language. 

Thin hips and meaty thighs tucked into blue jeans, and Even doesn’t know if he’s ever stared so long at a boy before. Doesn’t know if all the opposite things about girls are supposed to turn him on, too. But he’s wondering. Imagining what Isak’s hands feel like. His lips.

Isak notices him staring, and when Even gets caught, he fights the blush and pretends to be lost in thought—bouncing back to Jonas and Magnus’s conversation like he’s been engrossed the whole time. 

But Isak doesn’t let him live it down, because instead of tearing his eyes away in embarrassed frustration like Even, he continues to linger his gaze. Lets his pupils trace every long line of Even like he’s just now noticing how attractive he is. Like maybe he _knows,_ too.

Even can feel his adam’s apple bob as he swallows nervously. Can feel sweat start to stick on the back of his neck. Can feel Isak’s eyes studying every cell on his body.

And he likes it.

It’s completely different. Girls give him looks, sure, but not like this. Even’s usually the one in control, but now he’s lost all sense of it, and Isak’s eyes on him like this make him feel absolutely delicious.

Which is an entirely new sensation altogether, because having this _boy_ look him up and down like he’s something worthy to even be looked up and down _at_ sets his skin alight with temptation to turn his curiosity up a notch. To step over the line of _just curious enough to look_ into _just curious enough to maybe touch,_ too.

So, just as an experiment of course, Even meets Isak’s gaze and doesn’t break it. He looks (at least he hopes he looks) daring and brave into Isak’s blown pupils, and when Isak licks his bottom lip Even’s lap grows hot and tight and _shit, that has never happened before._

Even’s head swims in an ocean of confusion and desire and shame and fear. And swim is a very loose word, because drowning seems more appropriate. 

It continues like that for awhile. Even revels in Isak’s laugh and looks but doesn’t say much. Just the traditional agreements and polite chuckles when necessary, popping in maybe once to add a short anecdote as an afterthought. But that little footnote in the corner of his mind bookmarks itself there, and it won’t leave Even alone. The rush of temptation, now that he is actually single and free to _do_ something about it, is almost overwhelming.

The only problem is he has no idea where to begin, because that footnote is bookmarked in the middle of a story he hasn’t even started yet.

Isak looks to him in between sentences and thoughts, eyebrows pinched sometimes like he’s trying to ask Even a silent question amidst the sea of conversations.

But Even has no idea how to answer. In fact, he’s starting to doubt himself and wonder if these glances mean anything all. Because why should they, if he’s secretly seeking them?

So he doesn’t do anything about it—not that he’s brave enough to, anyway. Actually, he’s so frustrated with himself and just, this _situation,_ that he excuses himself from their circle to find the bathroom upstairs. “Gotta piss,” he mumbles, getting up. He feels Isak’s stare glued to his back as he rises and makes his way up the staircase, the air already lighter. 

There’s a line, of course, so he waits—nerves calming and head clearing slightly as his high settles down and Isak’s eyes, almost like another drug, aren’t tempting him. 

He doesn’t even have to go, really. So when it’s finally his turn he just splashes cold water on his face and _looks._ In the mirror and at his soul and _wonders_ if he can reach through it and slap the Even he sees in the reflection across the face. And why? Hell if he knows. Maybe because this is the first time he’s thought about a boy across the room for more than a minute— _really_ thought about him. Thought about him so thoroughly that the tightness in his pants makes him confused and angry and curious. And conflicting emotions aren’t new to Even, but these ones are. 

He musters up enough courage to leave the bathroom, but it all dissolves when he sees Isak waiting by the door after he opens it—the next in line. 

Slyly—Even wouldn’t even notice if he couldn’t actually feel it—Isak slips something in his back pocket with a smirk and lingering eye contact before he trades places with Even in the doorway. The proximity makes Even’s heart thud loudly in his head and throat and mouth—heavy on his tongue like he’s choking on it. 

Isak steps into the bathroom, and Even swears he winks before shutting the door. 

The tension of that moment alone almost makes him forget about the vibrations left over from Isak’s touch still lingering in his back pocket. Taking the small piece of paper out of it almost feels like a dream, like he’s watching a different Even from a different time live this moment instead. 

In black ink, in small handwriting on lined paper it says:

_Kjærlighetskarusellen. 21:00._

That’s in ten minutes. 

 

———

 

Even has no idea what he’s doing. He’s propped up against the rounded exterior of the Kjærlighetskarusell with his arms crossed lazily over his middle and a cigarette between his lips to calm the nerves. It’s dark. Isak is late. He’s debating on just leaving, which would be, he thinks, a flood of disappointing relief. 

Not that he knows how to swim in that flood, anyways. 

He twirls the bouncy ball in the right pocket of his jean jacket mechanically between his fingers, just to give them something to do.

“You’re not inside already?” An annoyed voice huffs as blonde curls and crossed arms rush past him from the other side suddenly, not bothering to look at Even before disappearing into the entrance of the public bathroom. 

Even moves as soon as Isak passes him, lips slacking around his cigarette unintentionally as his face softens with confusion. He takes a step but stops. 

“Well, wait at least a minute!” Isak stage whispers, almost offended. His voice echoes from inside the industrious, concrete walls. 

Even freezes. Wonders if maybe he should just drown in that disappointing relief and leave. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, albeit maybe a bit embarrassing, but who knows if he’ll ever even see Isak again.

But something roots him to the spot and encourages him to slowly finish his cigarette, long drag after long drag filling his lungs with nicotine and curiosity and temptation. Maybe a little bit of bravery.

It’s probably been more than a minute, but Even takes his time as he smashes his cigarette butt on the pavement with his shoe. He rounds the corner of the entrance to the Kjærlighetskarusell where he sees Isak leaning against the sink with a smirk on his lips, waiting for him. 

Not even a second passes before Isak takes a step forward and kisses him, pressing him into the concrete wall of the small bathroom. Open and hungry and just… Even is drowning. It doesn’t matter what decisions he makes, it seems. He’s always drowning. 

It’s not foreign… although that word isn’t far off. Exotic doesn’t seem right, either, but it’s closer. Even’s been kissed. Hard and fast and full of desire like this. But there’s a strong jaw and stubble brushing against his cheek and large, rough hands in his hair and on his hip. It’s overwhelming, but he doesn’t hate it. In fact, maybe if he could take his time, he’d love it. 

When Isak presses his hips into Even’s to find nothing, he pops off. Hands slide from dirty places to safer waters on Even’s sides. 

“Are you okay?” Isak’s voice is soft and gentle. His eyes search, and they must see the blue pools of Even’s that convey just how much he can’t swim in this ocean of unfamiliar movement. “Have you never…?” He begins again as he starts to understand, unlatching himself completely so they aren’t touching anymore. 

Even shakes his head. Swallows the lump in his throat. He licks his lips and still can’t help but glance down to Isak’s, wondering what they feel like soft and slow on his own this time. On his neck. Down his chest. “I haven’t,” Even admits. 

“So, are you just curious?” Isak prompts, a cute eyebrow raised in question.

Even thinks. “I don’t know,” he says honestly.

Isak has an understanding smile. “We don’t have to,” he whispers earnestly, like he really means it. “Fuck, I wouldn't have started so fast if I knew— sorry— but if you want to try again, we can. And I won’t be personally offended if you’re not into it,” he adds with a laugh.

“I don’t know,” Even repeats, bottom lip between his teeth with embarrassment seeping through in the redness of his cheeks.

“You can start by telling me what you do know?” Isak asks with a little inflection, taking another step back. 

Even doesn’t realize just how grateful he is for this—for Isak doing what he can to ease the situation and make Even comfortable. Even unintentionally grabs the hem of his shirt to stop him, keeping Isak close. 

Isak smiles smugly at that. 

“Okay,” Even starts, letting out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Okay,” he repeats. “I can do that. I know that you smell good. I know that you look good. I know that at the party I couldn’t stop staring at you and just… wondering. I know that I’ve always wondered. I know that I’ve never been in a position to do anything more than wonder.”

“Until now?” Isak prompts, helping him along. 

“Right,” Even agrees in a shaky voice. “Until now.”

“We can take it slow,” Isak offers, eyelashes fluttering down to create spidery shadows on his cheeks before two green eyes catch Even by surprise. “Or you can leave if you want. Or we can just talk—Jonas has told me a lot about you.” His inflection changes from suggestion to somewhere almost jealous. 

“Really?” Even asks, surprised. He’s not sure what Jonas might have to say about him, or when he would come up in conversation. 

“He says you’re funny,” Isak offers, and his eyes grow a brighter green. “Nice to work with at the record store. That you know a lot about movies and music.”

“That’s… not wrong, I guess,” Even shrugs, propping one leg up to rest his foot on the wall behind him, hair bouncing as he pouts his lips and bobs his head. 

Isak looks him up and down, almost mechanically—like he didn’t mean to—and it doesn’t go unnoticed. “So you’re either the nerdy type or the pretentious type,” Isak jokes, narrowing his eyes with a smile. “My money’s on nerd.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Even relaxes a bit. Smiles. Finds himself pushing up off the wall he’s leaning on to get closer into Isak’s bubble. 

“Well, if I can’t have you, this is the next best thing,” Isak offers, easing into the space closing between them. “If I can’t kiss your lips, I can at least see them smile.” 

There’s a pause, because Even has no idea how to respond to that—half of him wants Isak to pin him to the wall. The other half of him wants to run away.

“You are very…” Isak trails, thinking over what he’s about to say. “Hot,” he decides. That word does something unfair to Even’s insides.

The corners of Even’s lips turn up, and Isak raises his eyebrows at him like he’s won something—whatever game this is. “You’re wrong, by the way,” Even starts with a smile. “It’s the pretentious type.”

“Even better,” Isak licks his lips. “I like my men tall and a little bit of a smart ass.”

“Then I’m just your type,” Even flirts. And he realizes that’s what this is. He’s flirting with a boy. It feels dangerous and risky to do so, but maybe that’s why he’s starting to reconsider. To maybe let Isak know he would like to try again. 

“Oh,” Isak chuckles, looking away for a second as if Even has no idea. “You are everyone’s type.” He gives Even another once-over, lingering his gaze on his lips. 

Even takes a step closer, no room left for Isak to back up against the sink. “And you’re mine,” he admits in a whisper, too afraid to look Isak in the eye as he bites his bottom lip to force down his smile. “Something about…” he waves, gesturing to Isak’s, well, everything. “You,” he finishes. “Something about you,” he repeats again with a head nod, confirming it and looking up. 

“That’s okay,” Isak confesses, hands on the edge of the sink behind him as if it’s the only place they can find purchase. “You don’t have to know what it is yet.”

Even thinks for a moment, teeth still working his lip raw as every thought passes through his brain like a wave. One after the other. Temptation riles in him like a whirlpool—dizzy and out of control. But he also feels a little wrong, maybe, for using Isak like this to figure it out. “You’re cute,” he blurts, which causes Isak’s eyes to widen. 

“Yeah?” Isak asks, taken aback. “Is that one of the things you do know?”

Maybe it is. Even surely knows Isak looking at him with bedroom eyes and shiny lips isn’t helping. The muscles under his shirt and his height and just… Even can’t pinpoint it, really. Doesn’t know what it is about Isak specifically that isn’t helping him. But all of these things he _does_ know and all of these things he _doesn’t_ know aren’t really helping him, either—and like always, Even’s thoughts are mixing together and crossing the neurons in his brain until they feel like they're tied in knots—little cells in his head spider-webbing in a sticky mess. 

So what if Isak’s cute? So what if Even doesn’t understand what it means to enjoy the way a man looks while simultaneously wanting to _experience_ that joy? He wants to kiss Isak. To see what that feels like again—and so be it if that’s “wrong.” 

A lot of things are “wrong” with Even. 

Even nods. “I’d like to… maybe try again. But a lot slower.”

“I can do slow,” Isak rushes, the words out of his mouth fast—doing nothing to hide his desperation. But he doesn’t move. He waits for Even to. 

And he does, after a moment. Even cautiously takes a step closer and notes everything that’s different. He’s a tall guy, and so is Isak. He doesn’t need to lean down or crane his neck. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, either, or what would even feel the best. On girls it’s easy—wide hips and curvy waists make a nice place. But maybe he wants to slide them up Isak’s shoulders. Down his chest. See what that feels like. And when he finally closes the distance between their lips—the most familiar of it all—he notes the smell and the skin and how everything about Isak is undeniably _male._

And Even notes how he likes it. And suddenly they’re moving a bit. Their lips and their hips and their tongues. Slow—almost painfully so—with Isak ever so slightly taking the lead as Even grows more comfortable under his touch. Isak’s hands wander on him. Up to his waist and around to his back. Even takes note.

And then he stops taking notes because he’s too far into his own head. He wants to let his body feel, so he tries to focus on that. On Isak’s mouth soft and open against his own. On Isak’s hands sneaking ever so curiously under his shirt, as if asking for permission. On Isak’s hips pressing into his own and _shit,_ feeling what he’s _doing_ to Isak—feeling his effect on him—it’s making Even relax into it and reciprocate. He feels Isak smile under him when he starts to mimic the movements—thrusting hips and heavy breaths and gripping hands. Being turned on by Isak. 

Which is a dizzying sensation—being turned on by a boy. A part of Even can’t help but feel wrong, but he’s slowly losing all of his senses and any trace of thought—making it hard to even care. 

He backs them up, so it’s Isak pressing Even against the wall instead of Even pressing Isak against the sink, and Even gives him permission to just unravel him completely. 

Isak’s lips wander now along Even’s jaw. Down his neck. His hands are completely under his shirt, moving from tugging at belt loops to gliding over the lean muscles of Even’s middle. 

And Even comes undone. He finds himself pressing his hips into Isak’s and breathing hard. Letting out tiny, high sounds when Isak grinds his thighs between Even’s spread ones, letting the friction rile up the hurricane already curling in his lower belly. 

“Can I?” Isak asks over a smile, their lips connected again as he thumbs over the button of Even’s jeans. 

“Can you what?” Even asks—breathless and a little scared. Absolutely clueless. 

“Go… down on you?” Isak clarifies, dragging out the first word and ending the last with inflection, trying to not sound demeaning.

Even wants to say yes and no at the same time, but that word doesn’t exist. So he thinks—maybe for a beat too long, because Isak’s starting to back away. 

“Yes,” Even breaths without thinking, because even the thought of the loss of contact is making him dizzy. And he’s already dizzy—all of his blood draining south making him unable to use his brain. 

“Only if you’re sure,” Isak presses, hands slinking back to Even’s hips. 

“I’m sure,” Even confirms, a head nod and a small kiss, which surprises both him and Isak.

Isak kisses him again at that, fingers tracing the hem of Even’s jeans in a teasing way, slinking in to touch the skin there and sliding out to palm over the tightness in his pants. Even feels a noise in his throat make its way out, which makes Isak smile proudly over the kiss—both of their mouths opening with a little hesitation to test the waters and deepen it.

“Okay,” Isak fumbles with the button and the zipper, almost as nervous as Even for some reason—if that’s possible. He shoves Even’s pants down in a hurry, just enough to free him. 

Even watches Isak sink to his knees. If Even didn’t know any better, Isak seems hesitant. Green eyes look up at him from below, and where Even thinks should be deviousness, there’s a little doubt.

Isak pauses. Seems to make a decision, as if Even is an experiment. His fingers brush warily on Even’s hips. His sides. The smooth skin on his lower belly and then down to the tops of his thighs. His eyes following—almost appreciating.

It feels exhilarating—just comfortably over the border of too much yet still somehow not enough, like Isak knows he’d feel this way. (Fuck, he probably knows _exactly_ how Even feels—he’s probably been right where Even is before). And all Even can do is appreciate him for taking his time. Building it up. Giving Even every out he can while still keeping the moment alive. 

(Which Even thinks is not the norm in the Kjærlighetskarusel,l where things are rushed and quiet.)

But Isak doesn’t touch him. Not yet.

Even wonders what he’s thinking. What decision he’s making.

And whichever decision it is, it’s torture and pleasure all at once when Isak decides to take his hand and run a comfortable grip right up Even’s dick. And then takes him into his mouth—slowly. With closed eyes. Like Even is the most delicious thing on earth.

Even is melting, becoming part of the ocean he can’t seem to swim in. 

And again, it’s not foreign. He’s had his dick sucked before. This isn’t entirely new, although he tries not to note all the differences and instead focus on the feeling. On how Isak starting to look up at him under long lashes—his lips sliding over sensitive skin—is one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. On how Isak’s hand working below his lips to tug at Even’s balls feels big and rough but nice. On how hearing Isak’s noises—his deep breaths through his nose and low gags when Even’s dick hits the back of his throat—make Even’s nerves dance up his spine. 

It’s different, but it’s good. It’s _oh_ so good. It’s _undeniably_ good. It’s so good—Isak undoes him _so good_ —that Even’s going to lose all sense of who and where he is right into Isak’s mouth if he doesn’t say something soon. 

“Isak,” Even warns, but Isak tightens his grip on the back of Even’s thigh to shove him further into his mouth—egging him on to come into it.

When he does, it’s like a tsunami. Powerful and scary and over before Even even knows what happened. Wrecking the land below it in a flood—that same flood of disappointing relief. 

Even’s breathless and panting and running his hands through the waves on the top of his head—looking down at this _boy_ with his own come stuck to the side of Isak’s mouth smiling up at him.

And Even can’t swim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


	2. deciding

“Where did you go last night?”

Even pretends not to hear Jonas calling the question from the front of the record store, dawdling with his time card in the backroom as he punches in.

He didn’t sleep. He feels strangely empty. It’s not good for his mind to race, but how in the world could it not after last night? He feels sick yet joyous. Disgusting and experimental. Curious and thrilled and proud and anxious. One minute he’s over the moon and the next he’s spiraling. It’s taking almost every ounce of self-control to stay centered—to not let what’s inevitable make him surrender. 

Bottom line, he doesn’t know what to make of it quite yet.

“Yeah,” a familiar voice starts when Even takes a lazy step through the beaded curtain that separates the back room from the front of the stoor, catching him off guard. “Where did you go last night?”

Isak’s sitting on the counter of the record store by the cash register, one long leg bent at the knee and resting on the surface while the other dangles leisurely, swaying back and forth. He’s got his elbow resting on his knee and his cheek resting in his hand—a dreamy smile on his face like he’s replaying _exactly_ where Even went last night in his head in slow motion. Almost like he’s daring Even to replay it, too—a dirty little secret they could get lost in for a second together.

But Even is hard pressed. He feels like he’s been hit by a train. Mind tired. Body tired. Everything is tired. He hasn’t had time to process anything, let alone decide how he feels other than _tired._

“Hi, Isak,” he says dryly, wondering why he’s even here at all but also feeling guilty when Isak’s smile falters. He grabs the crate of records by the _used_ slot and begins to sort them by alphabetical order. He needs to keep his mind busy. His eyes busy.

The silence grows awkward as he thumbs through the crate, and Even realizes he’s blatantly ignoring the question.

“You said you were going to go take a piss last night and then never came back,” Jonas pushes, moving to the front door to switch the closed sign to open.

Even looks up at Isak now that Jonas’s gaze is diverted for a moment, and he’s surprised to see a flicker of fear where he was expecting a smug grin. “I just didn’t feel well,” Even lies, watching Isak’s shoulders soften. “So I went home. Sorry, I should have popped back down and told you.”

“No stress,” Jonas waves him off. There’s a loud crash just as he takes a step back towards them. “Isak!” Jonas groans with an eye roll, redirecting his attention and whipping his head to the side to stare at the mess of records now on the floor—a cringing Isak above them. “Stop fucking with stuff. You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“Then don’t invite me,” Isak mocks. He sounds smug about it.

Jonas bends over to pick up the mess, and Even watches Isak’s eyes flicker over his friend’s body for a split second. Even’s not sure if it’s because last night Isak was all his—offering to kiss him slowly and get on his knees—but he doesn’t like it. He raises an eyebrow when Isak peeks over his shoulder to see Even catching him in the act, a blush crossing his cheeks and nose.

“Maybe I won’t, then,” Jonas jokes back, standing up straight and using his free hand to shove Isak playfully.

Even hates feeling so many things all the time: Irritation at Jonas for being such an ignorant flirt. Pity for Isak who’s aimlessly indulging in it. And, of course, that whirlpool of confusion and shame and desire (okay, jealousy too—god it’s a lot of emotions) that makes his head spin.

“Goddamnit, Isak,” Jonas pouts, inspecting one of the records that had fallen on the floor. “This one’s cracked. Now I have to go damage it out,” he trails, heading for the back room and pulling a pencil from somewhere in his mess of curls, presumably from behind his ear.

Even watches Isak watch him leave, and he almost wishes last night never happened so he could cut the string that connects him to this boy.

Here’s a secret. Even doesn’t do one-night-stands. Can’t, really. He loves the build up and everything that comes with it. The flirting. The chase. Endless, senseless kissing for days and weeks on end until his lips are swollen and raw and his whole heart is leaking with desire for someone. Because it always takes a piece of Even away when he’s done—whether it be of his body or heart or soul—and that, frankly, is exhausting.

But now here he is, watching Isak watch someone else while a tiny part of Even resides somewhere in those blonde curls and lanky arms and green eyes, trying to make an uncomfortable, unfamiliar home there.

“Why are you here?” Even asks, retaining his gaze down while he fumbles for something to keep his hands busy. He reaches back for the crate and ambles through it. It sounds a lot colder than he means for it to.

“I’m always here,” Isak shrugs.

Even just hums indifferently. He wonders if Isak can feel the jealousy seeping out of him. Actually, he wonders if Isak is even aware of it at all. “Well, I just haven’t seen you around,” Even presses after a moment of silence.

“You only started working here a week ago,” Isak reminds him. “Don’t worry. You’ll see me around a lot.”

Even dares to look up. Isak winks at him.

“I’m not worried.” It sounds like a lie.

The air hangs thick and heavy with Even’s curtness. If Isak hasn’t picked up on his envy, he’s at least picked up on his indifference.

“Are you okay?” Isak presses, hopping down from the counter to stand behind it with Even. “Last night—I’m sorry if it, like, freaked you out.”

“Freaked me out?” Even challenges, looking up now to find Isak right in front of him.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Isak retracts, his shoulders slumping and his mouth gaping around the last word as he tries to find a new one. “I just meant, like, I hope you don’t regret it. I hope you had fun.”

Even raises his eyebrows at Isak, who tests him with a little smile he can’t help but return. And suddenly everything about Isak and the way he smells and the way he moves and the way he kisses Even—the way he touches his body—it’s everywhere. Last night is rushing back to him. Live wires connect them by the throats and hearts and hips, and if Jonas wasn’t in the backroom Even might ask Isak to ruin him all over again right here on the counter.

“I had fun,” Even reassures with a sly smile and a shaky exhale that seems to break the tension before he focuses back on fumbling through the used bin of records. 

“Yeah?” Isak sounds a little too excited. “Like, enough fun to…” 

He’s waiting for Even to finish his sentence, but Even’s too smart for that. He wants to hear Isak say it.

So Even just raises his eyebrows again, still focused on his hands. When the silence stretches wide, he can’t help but prompt Isak along. “To…?” He continues in a mocking tone. Teasing. That’s what he realizes this is. He’s teasing a boy. 

Isak steps forward, and suddenly all of Even’s cells are on red alert—alarming in the fact that if someone were to see them right now, this situation would be very difficult to explain away; thrilling in the fact that if Even wanted to, he could turn his face just an inch to find Isak’s lips.

And he knows that Isak would let him. 

“To do it again?” Isak whispers, mere atoms between his lips and Even’s ear. It makes Even shiver visibly, goosebumps like a gradient forming first at his shoulders all the way down to his wrists.

The chime of the bell as the front door opens startles them apart, and all of Even’s hairs standing on end might as well be plucked out one by one—because that annoying, festering pain is what it feels like when he sees Sonja stepping through with Emma.

They hesitate. When their eyes lock, they quickly turn away as if they never knew each other at all. Emma even dares to give him a nasty glare when they walk past to the middle of the store, filtering through the crates of records on the table tops.

The silence is worse than white-noise. Even wishes they would leave—everything was curiously thrilling and dangerous in the most exciting way just a moment ago, but now, he feels only cold dread. He wishes _he_ could leave. So he puts some music on to fill the void. The Beatles. _Oh! Darling._ Unintentional, but he winces anyways when _oh darling / please believe me / I'll never do you no harm_ filters through the speakers. It would probably look bad to change it, so he lets it play and wallows in his own bad decision laced with painful awkwardness.

Isak gives him the side eye when the song plays. The shock from hot to cold makes his skin feel tight and clammy, and Even can’t find a warm glance anywhere. 

Not that he deserves one.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Sonja says with polite coldness after the longest five minutes of Even’s life. He swears he sees Sonja elbow Emma in the side as if to hurry up.

Emma pays for her record and Even gives her too much change.

“Sorry,” he mumbles when Emma hands him back five kroner. “I just started,” he continues as both an excuse to her and as an explanation to Sonja.

“How are you doing?” She treads, glancing from Isak to Emma as if wishing they would disappear. It’s a question that’s harmless on the outside, but Even knows it’s a double-edged sword. Knows that Sonja knows he’s never been too clever on the spot when he’s in the wrong, and that she wants to see him flounder to creatively answer her.

“Fine,” Even lies. He doesn’t know how he’s doing. “And you?” He winces after he asks, sensing her coldness before the last word even leaves his mouth.

Sonja shrugs passive aggressively. “Great,” she mouths, tight and curt and _maybe this was a mistake_ written all over her face. “Never been better.”

The string of words is like a knife, and nothing is more painful than a slice right back over a freshly healed wound. They always seem to bleed more when that happens—reminding him that they never _truly_ heal. Even will always have a scar. A self-inflicted one.

“Well, have a nice day,” Isak cheers, ushering them along with a fake smile and slicing the silence in half. He wraps Emma’s record—handing it to her as if he works here.

Even realizes his hands have been frozen. His brain numb.

The girls smile weakly. Someone mumbles a _you, too_ rather coldly over their shoulder and the chime of the door being opened for their exit is the sweetest sound to Even’s ears. He sighs in relief when it shuts behind them.

“Who was _that?”_ Jonas asks. He’d been standing in the doorway, beaded curtain parted to the side—leaning there with an arm above his head and a bushy eyebrow raised to follow it.

“Sonja,” Even mutters, the saga of trying to find something to do with his hands continuing.

Jonas lets out a low whistle. “Sonja, like Sonja your ex?”

Even nods numbly. He can feel Isak scan over him.

“She’s hot,” Isak shrugs, but when they make eye contact Even can see right through him. Transparent like tracing paper—just enough to peer to the other side. Specs of opaqueness keeping it barely solid enough to hold together.

And suddenly the picture of Isak Even had painted in his head isn’t quite the same—there’s something else, something deeper. Something that feels all too familiar.

Even feels bad for Isak. And then for himself.

 

———

 

While Even wants to forget the day entirely, he can’t. Specifically, the part where Isak’s lips were almost brushing his ear—his breath hot on Even’s neck and his voice low and quiet. 

_Enough to do it again?_

Those words have been on repeat in Even’s brain all night—making his mind whirl and his palms sweat and his dick hard.

And while they had never made any concrete plans, the clock on Even’s bedside table says 20:45 and he can’t lay here under the duvet and stare at the ceiling and feel sorry for himself anymore. He’s going to take a walk—a walk with a very specific destination in mind—and well—whatever happens, happens.

He paces fast. Fists in his pockets and head down. When he makes it to the Kjærlighetskarusell, he walks around the perimeter once and then leans, this time not against it, but against a tree just a few meters away. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, the first inhale almost like magic as he feels his nerves start to slow dance with the nicotine.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

Even turns his head to see a man. Maybe about five years or so older than he is.

So he plays dumb. It could be an invitation. It could also be a trap. “I’m just taking a smoke break,” Even nods, drawing the cigarette back into his mouth and taking a sharp drag. It’s the only thing keeping him rooted in place.

The man shrugs, and his face seems to show the same sort of apprehension as Even’s. _It could be an invitation. It could be a trap._ He walks into the Kjærlighetskarusellen anyway, and a minute later Even sees someone cross the park from the far side and enter, too. He stays by the tree. Ten minutes. Two more cigarettes. They’re still inside—there’s a loud groan, and then a sharp _shh!_

“Yeah, sometimes that happens.” 

Even almost loses his balance he’s caught so off guard by the voice suddenly beside him—choking on the smoke in his lungs that Isak is now beating out of him with a few rough pats on the back.

“Sorry—” Isak starts, laughing. His pats turn to soothing circles as Even’s breaths even out. And then his hand leaves. “I didn’t mean to scare you—I was actually hoping I’d find you here.”

 _What if you didn’t?_ Even doesn’t dare ask it. Doesn’t know if he wants to know. Instead, he’s just glad Isak’s here. He lets him know that with a little smile.

“But now I guess it doesn’t matter,” Isak sighs, gesturing half-heartedly to the Kjærlighetskarusell where he and Even had both heard the noise come from—that Even had seen the two men enter. “Sometimes when guys are really desperate, they don’t care—they’ll just fuck next to each other.” There’s no cadence in Isak’s voice.

The thought twists Even’s insides—all his soft organs giving a quick heave. He doesn’t want to know why Isak knows that. He feels sorry for the men in there, who have no other choice. For the first time, he feels offended at the whole situation, because anything else would be too risky. 

“I was afraid you wouldn’t remember,” Isak shuffles, looking down at his feet and kicking a stray rock. “Or wouldn’t want to.”

Even finally opens his mouth. “I _wanted_ to not remember,” he starts, thinking more or less of what happened after Isak’s invitation. “I think. I don’t know.”

He’s expecting Isak to be confused, but instead, he’s smiling up at him—pursed lips containing sharp teeth with the cutest gaps peeking through. “You don’t have to know anything yet,” Isak repeats. It’s a nice mantra—one that Even thinks he might actually start to listen to. Isak leans against the tree next to Even after Even gives him a weak smile.

There’s silence. Static between them. Even tilts his head to look over at Isak, who’s patiently picking at his fingernails beside him. He studies him for a moment, maybe to see if he feels anything. Or to wonder if everything has been a fluke, and whether or not he hopes that it might be. But it’s not, because once Isak can feel his gaze—turns his head to meet it—there’s that swooping feeling in Even’s stomach. 

Butterflies. A boy is giving him butterflies. It’s frightening. He doesn’t know whether he wants to rip their wings off or to drink a gallon of sugar water so they have something sweet to flutter in.

There’s a weird agreement between them in this silence. They’re obviously waiting—leaning against this tree in front of the Kjærlighetskarusell with intentions to enter it once it’s free. And then all of the expectations will get thrown out of the window when they’re surrounded by concrete walls and urinals and Even will be clueless once again—Isak patiently taking his time with him; this confused, frustrated boy and Even just want to know _why._

“Anything you do know?” Isak jokes, his cheeks high on his face when he smiles at Even. It’s not necessarily flirting, but the care in each word—although he’s obviously referencing their last encounter—does something weird to Even’s heart. It makes him feel remembered.

Even chuckles. Looks down and then back at Isak and then at the Kjærlighetskarusell. “I wish they would hurry up,” he admits. Whether to get it on with or over with, he has no idea.

Isak doesn’t pester him, but they _why_ on the tip of his tongue is practically tangible. Even wants to eat it right out of his mouth because that action itself is the answer to his question.

So he might as well be blunt about it. “Because I want to kiss you,” Even admits. And it’s true. And he doesn’t feel that bad about it.

“Kissing isn't illegal,” Isak reminds him, turning on his shoulder and crossing his arms loosely over his waist. He shrugs when he says it. Pouts his lips and takes a step forward as if to dare Even. “We might get beat to hell,” Isak points out rather lightly—as if that’s just the way things are (because it is), “but it’s not illegal.”

God, it’s a nice thought. The sun is low in the sky—give it another five minutes and it’ll be completely gone. It’s the time of day where the shadows are the longest. Where the clouds in the sky are like ink blots over an orange to blue gradient. Cicadas howl in the evening air, which is thick but not hot. It’s a lot more romantic than a bathroom.

So much so that it’s tempting the hell out of Even, almost as much as Isak is; with his face angled and complexed under shadows from the street lights that are starting to flicker on. With his cheeks a little pink from sunburn. His hair windblown. His whole being making Even melt and solidify over and over again.

“Quickly?” Even asks him, not even bothering to look around.

Isak does it for him—eyes wild and careful as they scan the park. He looks back at Even and nods. “Quickly,” he confirms. There’s something about his stare that seems unsure, like this might not be a risk he’s been willing to take before—maybe not even one he wants to take now.

But if there’s something holding him back, he doesn’t let it. Isak leans in. Fast but soft. It’s only a second—lips and lips, nothing else touching, but it says so much that Even’s reeling when Isak pulls away. 

It also fucks Even over for the rest of his life, because no kiss—no matter how intense—will top the one he’s free to do with Isak. Out in the open, where no one did (but anyone could) see.

Even will come back to this kiss. Over and over again. WIll try to paint this scene in his head again, some of the colors wrong. Or maybe the shapes. If Even had known, he’d try to detail every atom of their surroundings—of Isak’s lips and skin and face in this warm light, nature around them—before it all slipped away and he was left with nothing but a blotchy memory.

A kiss has never made him feel so dizzy. Maybe it’s the risk that surrounds it, but Even chases him before he realizes what he’s doing.

Isak smiles at him a little proudly. It doesn’t falter from his face when he crosses his arms, leans back against the tree, and stares at the Kjærlighetskarusell. His gaze brash enough to almost will it empty.

Their pinky fingers play catch and release beside them against the tree bark. Hooking around each other. Smoothing against the inside of each other's palms and tapping every knuckle. Somehow, the intimacy of this simple act is heightened ten-fold, almost sexual, because of the danger, the uncertainty, the barefaced jeopardy that’s always around the corner. Patting them on the shoulders. Staring at them from a distance. Never leaving them alone, and in turn, reminding them wherever they go that this is not allowed.

Even’s only had a taste of it and yet he’s already sick of the flavor. Wonders if it’s even worth it at all, and yet, when Isak’s palm turns over in his, their hands flush for just a moment, he wonders if anyone else will ever be able to fill the void.

After one silent minute turns to ten, and then to twenty, Isak slumps down—his t-shirt dragging against the tree until he’s sitting on the grass with both knees up, elbows resting on them. He pats the grass next to him.

Even follows—folds his long limbs up and sits next to Isak. “Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing. Maybe for whatever is taking so long—maybe because they can’t control anything.

“I don’t mind,” Isak admits, plucking blades of grass from the dirt next to his shoes. “Sometimes,” he turns his head, smiling at Even, “it’s nice to just be—with someone else. Who’s like you.”

Even nods, not quite sure what that means, or more precisely, what Isak means by it.

“When did you know?” Isak’s voice is soft. He’s gone back to focusing on the grass.

Swallowing the lump quickly forming in his throat, Even doesn’t need to press Isak to understand the context of his question. “I don’t know,” he chuckles, and the confession, the same one he always seems to give Isak, makes him stifle a laugh as well. “I kind of knew all along, like, all my life. There was never some sort of revelation, or defining moment. Maybe like, a year or two ago,” Even is shaky on the exhale, running out of breath, “I just started to… wonder a little more in-depth.”

“Is that why you broke up with her?” Isak says, almost bitterly. Even knows he’s talking about Sonja. “Because you realized you didn’t like women?”

Even squints his eyes, first in consideration and then in question. First of all, that isn’t it. Second of all, Isak’s not even hitting the mark. “No,” he decides, wondering if explaining himself is even worth it. “I still like women.”

Isak nods. Even doesn’t know what it means, but he’s glad there’s no backlash—no _that’s not how it works_ or _maybe you’re just confused._ “But you also like men,” Isak states after some silence. There’s a smile behind the words.

Even turns to him—face dark blue as the sun finds its place meters below the horizon. “I think I do,” Even nods. “I think I do a lot.”

Hair scraping the rough bark behind him, Even rests his head uncomfortably against the tree and looks up. The sky is milky—clouds making sure not a single star shines through. The weight of the words he’s just spoken either chaining his limbs together or setting them free. He wonders if in a different time or if in a different place in the world, what Isak and he would be doing right now if their kisses weren’t confined to the concrete walls of a public urinal.

Maybe Isak would be on top of him—legs spread over his lap as they make out in the grass. In the park. As the day turns to night. Like boys and girls and young adults do when they’ve got nothing to hide. When they’ve got nothing they’ve been told to hide.

The men from earlier leave the Kjærlighetskarusell and wake Even from his daydream.

Isak stands. He shifts his weight from the tree to the balls of his feet, where he rocks back once and then looks over at Even. Excited. Smiling. A little devious. “Are you ready?” He asks. 

Even doesn’t say anything because he has no idea.

Isak looks over his shoulder. Around the park. “Wait, like, just a minute.” He trots down the small hill and rounds the corner to the entrance of the public bathroom, disappearing into concrete.

Even counts the seconds.

When he steps inside, each foot cold on the pavement, they gravitate towards each other. Close, but still space between them.

“Hi,” Isak breathes. As if this new setting requires its own greeting—like they’ve stepped into a new time. His eyes narrow slyly—his chin tilts up.

They both know why they’re in here.

“Hi,” Even responds. He feels the single word leave his throat messy, like it was stuck—caked to the back—before he hacks it up. Isak’s stillness makes him struggle to find another one. So in the absence of it, Even tests the waters that lie between them in rippling waves. Leaning in, he pretends to feel the last traces of sun on his face. Closing his eyes, he pretends to smell the summer air. And kissing Isak, he imagines the cicadas outside.

Isak lets him control the kiss. Command the pace. Set the tone. In it, with their lips parting against each other and their hands finding purchase on skin—necks and cheeks and wrists—Even doesn’t feel obligated to anything. He wonders how Isak’s able to make him feel like that, when the Kjærlighetskarusell is a place with nothing but expectations. 

He also wonders how many men come in here just to kiss the way they are now. Slow. With no promise. With fingers twirling locks of golden hair that belong to who? Who does it matter? Even’s lost sense of where he ends and where Isak begins as their tongues dance and sing around one another. It’s not heavy. It’s barely hot. It says _I want you_ but in a way Even’s not accustomed to kisses being. Before he knows it, Isak is up against the stone wall under him—and it sounds morbid—but Even would like nothing more than to crawl inside him just so he can be closer.

It’s nice to do this. It’s nice to let go. To forget about all the mistakes he’s made lately and to let Isak, almost a stranger, be so good to him with one foot slamming the brake and one flooring the gas.

Even likes Isak. He likes his wit and his sass and his self-assuredness. His curiosity and how he seems to know exactly who he is. How he, with no obligation to whatsoever, takes care of Even as he treads the waters. Never forces or pleads. Never expects or demands. And most of all, Even likes that Isak can only be this authentic around him.

Even tries to tell Isak this in their kiss. Tries to let Isak know—with every finger tracing over his neck, with every turn of the head, with every lick of their lips—that he likes him.

Breathless, Isak breaks the kiss and buries his face in Even’s neck—small bites and swollen lips and Even can feel his tongue trace up to his ear, leaving what feels like a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He tilts back and lets him.

It makes him hard. Not that the kiss didn’t—but now Even’s fully aware of it. He shifts his hands from Isak’s sides up his shirt and over the planes of his chest, which are warm and firm and a deliciously different sensation on every cell of his palms. It does nothing to help the fact.

But Even doesn’t know if he wants to do anything about it yet—his brain saying _wait_ and his dick saying _c’mon already._ It’s hard to ignore when Isak is seemingly melting into Even’s body—reveling in the shape of it—like he’s worshiping it—like he’ll never be able to touch Even again.

It’s hard to concentrate on not giving in when that’s all he wants to do—wants to dive head first into whatever this is whether it be too fast or too slow. They’ve already broken all the rules that don’t apply to them anyway, so Even closes his eyes and touches Isak. Squeezes his sides. Rakes his fingers through his hair. Palms his ass over his jeans and snakes his fingers through his belt loops and pulls him close.

“God,” Isak moans over Even’s neck, his kisses more like hot, shallow breaths—stuttering as Even keeps pulling and pulling and pulling him closer. “I finally feel like a horny teenager—is this what’s it’s like?” Even can feel Isak smile against his throat as he says it.

He’s not so far gone, though, to be a little heartbroken for him.

Maybe it’s that thought that makes Even brave. That makes his hands trace their way, fleetingly, over the tightness in the front of Isak’s jeans.

It makes a sound catch in Isak’s throat—somewhere between a gasp and a moan—and Even doesn’t know if it’s out of surprise or pleasure, but it sounds and feels and _just is_ so good on his skin. “You don’t have to,” Isak reminds him, although the words sound like they took a lot of effort.

Even pauses—his neck craned back as Isak continues to breathe into it with sloppy half-kisses. He trails a cautious finger, pressing slightly, up the length of Isak’s dick through his pants. 

Isak’s suddenly heavier against him—going weak in the knees at the touch.

It’s not like Even’s never touched a dick before—he’s touched his own plenty of times. But he’s still nervous—teasing Isak not because he necessarily wants to, but because he’s afraid to move at a pace that’s anything but carefully slow.

One finger turns to two as he explores the way Isak feels under his touch—how when he gets to the tip it jerks ever so slightly—how Isak basically falls apart when two fingers become Even’s whole palm and suddenly there’s pressure.

“I want to,” Even decides, the weight of Isak in his hand twitching at the words. His own falter when he says it—both from the overwhelming feeling of Isak, a breathless mess against the wall, and of crossing this scary line Even’s made up in his mind, like suddenly once he touches Isak there’s no turning around and he’ll no longer be able to look back on these past few days as _that one time, when I had no idea what I was doing._

His fingers fumble. Isak helps him undo his own pants.

“Kiss me,” Isak urges, trailing the tip of his nose up Even’s neck. Over the line of his jaw until he’s looking him right in the eye—pupils blown and eyelids low. 

It’s the only demand he makes.

Unprepared is a good word for Even when he simultaneously kisses Isak and reaches into his boxers, grabbing his swollen cock at the base and pulling up, trying to remember what he likes himself and just going with that. Because Isak melts all too easily at his touch, and it’s practically addicting—his hips desperately following the motion with Even’s hand. He moans right into Even’s parted lips and over his tongue as they kiss.

Because that’s all Even. _Even_ is making Isak feel this way. 

(Even is making a _boy_ feel this way.)

And he likes it. He wants to. If he tries really hard, he can block out all of the warning sirens flashing _wrong! wrong! wrong!_ in neon red behind his eyelids.

But Even doesn't care. It’s hard to when he picks up the pace of his hand—gliding up and down Isak’s dick and squeezing tighter now as Isak struggles to steady his hips and match the rhythm, fucking into Even’s hand almost helplessly. Every shallow breath Isak catches—every time he stifles something in the back of his throat that might come out too loud, making him kiss Even harder—it dulls those sirens in Even’s mind. Dulls them in a way that makes him think _wouldn’t this be nice always._

Even’s hand getting tired heightens his desire to feel Isak all over him—to feel his cock pulse in his grip as he comes and to feel the proof. To see everything about Isak ruined when he pulls away. His hair and his face and his pants—how good _Even_ made _him_ feel.

And more so (this thought shocks even himself), he wants to taste it.

Moving his hand away, Even bites Isak’s lip playfully where there’s a disappointed groan on his end. Letting out a shuddered breath, Even regains himself. He pushes Isak’s pants down a little farther, just to his upper thighs.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Even admits, pressing his forehead to Isak’s, who kisses him hungry by surprise.

“You don’t have to,” Isak notes when he pulls away, and Even’s unsure of whether he means _you don’t have to do this_ or _you don’t have to know._

Even smiles when he realizes Isak probably means both.

He kisses Isak’s cheek, which he feels tighten in a lazy smile under the pressure of it. He kisses Isak’s jaw. His neck. His collarbones. Lifting his shirt, he kisses his chest.

When Even sinks to his knees, he repeats himself. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” This time more to himself. And then he looks at it. Isak’s dick—level with his own face. It looks painfully hard. The tip is cherry red and shiny with precum. It’s...scary, he won’t lie, and Even _really_ has no idea what he’s doing. That doesn’t stop Even’s desire to feel Isak let go—to taste how good he can undo him.

“Its okay, you don’t— _oh my god.”_

Taking Isak in his mouth, Even goes very slow, because it’s hard to move at all when the sirens flare behind his eyes again. But the weight of Isak in his mouth—when he rests a gentle hand on the top of Even’s head and trails his fingers down over his ear. Traces his jaw. Places a hand on his cheek and then snakes it to the back of his head to cradle it—they stop completely.

And then Even’s mind is nothing but a love song for this moment right now and how right it feels to hear Isak—all of his sounds—to feel him—twitching and trying to let Even control everything when he so obviously wants to just fuck Even’s mouth.

Carefully, Even’s lips slide up the length of Isak’s cock before coming back down, using his tongue to circle the tip before doing it again. Steadying his rhythm. Using his hands to grip Isak right on the back of his thighs. He feels them tremble a bit with every stroke, like Isak’s knees might give way.

He hopes it’s good, or, good enough. He hopes it’s not disappointing or forgetful. That he’s not using too much tongue or too much teeth or not enough _whatever._

“Move,” Isak demands, tugging gently at the grown out hairs on the back of Even’s neck. “You’re going to make me—”

Even moves, but unexpectedly. He slides his lips all the way to the base of Isak’s dick—his tongue smoothing the underside of it. And Isak’s powerless as his grip on Even’s hair loosens into nothing but lax fingers. He’s lawless. Limp. Totally undone when Even feels his dick pump in his mouth. Tastes him down the back of his throat as his own eyes water with it. 

It’s only now that Even’s painfully aware of how hard he is himself—how dizzy he is when he opens his eyes and looks into Isak’s—both of their faces patchy and their lips shiny and their expressions something on the border of awe and delusion. It’s almost agonizing how turned on he is by making Isak come. He shifts on his knees and just the fabric of his jeans brushing against his dick makes him jerk with the pleasure.

Hungrily—Even lasts a minute tops—Isak returns the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


	3. deterring

Even gets about 3 hours of sleep—crashing onto his pillow at four thirty in the morning after he spent the whole night with Isak. Where he took him in his mouth. Swallowed his come. And then Isak returned the favor and they did it again. And again. And again. Like they couldn’t get enough of each other—their time to recharge spent catching their breath, slumped and sitting against the concrete walls until their small talk turned dirty again and Isak found his way into Even’s lap. Kissed Even hard and long until Even found nothing but comfort and acceptance in it. Their knees and limbs and feet and everything sore from the hard floor and walls. Their lips and necks swollen and bruised. Coming until there was literally nothing left. Until their bodies were beaten enough.

Even’s alarm goes off at seven thirty. His joints creak and his head pounds a bit from exhaustion. Yet he also can’t help but smile to himself when he remembers everything—the fear and anxiety and nagging _wrong!_ washing away into something careful. Calm. Delightful. His hands all over Isak’s body. Surrendering to it, and likewise, watching Isak surrender as well. Talking to him—under the tree and in the Kjærlighetskarusell before and in-between and after. Just watching him. Being with him. 

And while he remembers, his hand finds its way down his boxers to his morning wood and remembers and remembers and _remembers._ He comes thinking of Isak in his bed next to him. How much nicer that would be.

It’s the first time he’s gotten off to the thought of another boy. First, there’s guilt. Then worry. Then a little bit of _fuck you_ as he looks up to his ceiling—pretending he can see through it to the sky—and cursing the world for making so many things about him feel this way. He’s so tired of it.

“You were home late.”

Even was hoping his mom wouldn’t notice. He pauses in the hallway, his hand hovering over the bathroom doorknob and her back turned to him at the kitchen sink while she does the dishes. It sounds more worried than angry.

Even doesn’t blame her. She has every right to be worried.

She turns around, a soft smile on her face, but Even can see the searching in her eyes—she doesn’t have to ask _are you okay?_ for Even to know what she’s thinking. Instead, she just sprawls her arms out, beckoning Even to come here for an embrace.

He does, hesitantly—still a little upset at her for making him move back home and she knows it. That’s why she hasn’t set any rules, because how do you impose those back on someone who’s already moved out? This is only temporary, after all.

“You’ll tell me if something is wrong?” She asks, face turned sideways and cheek smushing into Even’s chest. Even can feel her give up.

He wants to tell her. Mostly for the reprieve of it. _I slept with a boy. His name is Isak. He doesn’t know the terrible things about me. And if he did, maybe he would still accept me because technically, he’s terrible too. To the world. I think I like him. Or, at least the idea of him._ The words bubble up in his throat, but he knows he won’t say them—not yet, at least. 

_Tell me I’m not wrong. Tell me I’m not wrong. Tell me I’m not wrong._ He doesn’t know if the doubt in his confession is worth what he wants to hear.

“Yeah,” Even breaths into her hair—closing his eyes and trying to decide if this is lying or not. “I’ll tell you.”

 

———

 

That same night, and for three more, Even meets Isak at the Kjærlighetskarusell. And the next day, Isak is back at the record store. When Even walks through the back door, he can hear him.

“You’re being so _vague,”_ Isak teases, pushing Jonas lightly in the shoulder, who is standing in front of him with a shy, proud smile as he sits on the counter.

Jonas is blind to it, but Isak’s body language makes Even’s nerves tense, like all of his insides have been cemented. His legs are spread. His head tilted. His eyes wide and his mouth pouty. He’s leaning back on his hands and his whole body is long and tempting. If it didn’t make Even jealous, it might turn him on.

“C’mon,” he begs again, this time kicking Jonas with a lazy swing of his leg. “I heard you last night. Was it Eva? It sounded like Eva.” He purses his lips in a knowing smile.

“Maybe,” Jonas grins, blush creeping over his cheeks. “It’s hard to sneak her in, though, when you never leave me alone!”

Isak narrows his eyes with a rather proud smirk. “At least I don’t bore her to death like Magnus—you should be thanking me, really.” He catches Even’s eye around the last word, looking over Jonas’s shoulder and nodding once at him. “Hey, Even.”

“Hi,” Even clears his throat, punching his time card and waltzing through the beaded curtain behind the counter. There’s silence, like he’s interrupted something. It grows awkward when he realizes he has.

Jonas turns around, and Isak’s body language slumps. “Sup, man?” he smiles at Even. “We just got a shipment of the new Self Portrait album, wanna give me a hand unwrapping it?” He’s already heading towards the back.

“Yeah, one second,” Even agrees, dawdling and waiting for Jonas to be out of earshot. When he is, he takes a long step towards Isak, still sitting on the counter.

“Hi,” He greets again, a lot quieter. A little lower. This one just for Isak.

“Hi,” Isak bats his eyelashes once—long and dramatic. He reaches his hand out and traces one finger down the front of Even’s chest, dragging it down his stomach and lingering at the waist of his jeans. 

Everything is moving at lightning speed. Only days ago Even was barely entertaining the thought, and now, Isak consumes his brain. His openness and kindness and willingness. His confidence and sass. His personality is composed of so many different colors. Yet, when mixed together, instead of a drab brown, they create a new one altogether. But there’s a fragility to him, too. And Even understands that all too well.

It makes Even smile a bit—this simple rush.

“What are you doing tonight?” Even asks—his doubt settling into bravery. It’s the first time he’s initiated. Not like it matters, he assumes they’d meet regardless. But inside, his brain is doing that backpedaling again.

Tilting his head, Isak blows a sigh out, causing a stray curl on his forehead to bounce. He slowly drags his finger down over Even’s crotch and smiles a bit when he feels it plump up under his touch. “Jonas is having a thing,” he shrugs. “I could blow it off, maybe. For like an hour.” He looks up at Even suggestively.

Even closes his eyes involuntarily, his pupils dragging up in a little ecstasy when Isak palms his hardening dick, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Okay,” he breathes, helpless to do anything but agree. “21:00?”

“Like always,” Isak whispers in his ear, hopping down from the counter—careful to flush their fronts together along the way—and leaving Even to adjust himself before heading towards the stockroom to help Jonas.

He’s hoisting a heavy box onto the table when Even makes his way through the beaded curtain, cutting the tape with a knife and pulling out sleeves of crisp, new records. “I’ve got some really good stuff, man,” he nods his head at Even, lips turning up into a satisfied smile when he reaches into his curls and produces a neatly rolled joint from someone in them. “Just smell it,” he insists, handing it to Even.

It’s strong—that’s all Even can tell, really. When he takes a whiff, it transports him back to Jonas’s basement merely a week ago—Isak plucking a similar one from his lips. Catching his eye. Slipping a note into his back pocket. How it tastes on his tongue when they kiss.

“I was going to have some people over tonight,” Jonas starts again when Even hands him back the joint with an impressed nod. “Real chill—nothing like last time. Want to come?”

The beads rustle as Isak follows them into the backroom. Even can tell he’s heard the question, and he scans Isak’s face for a reaction. There’s not much there, albeit maybe some nervousness. He wishes there was something else.

“Sure,” Even agrees. Everything but.

 

———

 

Even’s been drunk once in his life and he hated it. Sad. Stumbling. He crashed in his bed and couldn’t get out for a week. He’s been like this before—he knows there’s a good chance it was just _time._

And he feels like a hypocrite because the same is true about smoking. In the short run, it makes him feel normal. It numbs his racing thoughts and soothes his doubts and gives him the confidence that used to pour from his smile that he knows is dwindling. 

In the long run, it makes everything worse.

And when he walks through the door of Jonas and Isak’s apartment—the direct opposite of _real chill_ like Jonas promised with people packed from wall to wall—he wishes now more than ever he was high so he could have a short run relief from Sonja, drunk as hell, wrapping her arms around his neck and slurring what sounds like his name loudly in his ear.

Even meets Jonas’s eye across the room and sees him mouth _sorry_ and then loses it quickly, leaning into what Even can only make out as blonde curls while Isak whispers something rib-splittingly funny into Jonas’s ear and he begins to burst with laughter.

Emma is pulling at Sonja’s arm, her eyes darting nervously from Even to her, as if asking Even for some sort of help she doesn’t know if he can provide.

Fuck the long run. This is Even’s own personal hell—a reminder of everything wrong he’s ever been or done or _is._

“Why do I miss you so bad?” Sonja yells with a drunk laugh over the music and the noise, an almost empty wine bottle threatening to fall from her fingers as Emma continues to stand warily, tugging at her sleeve and helplessly saying her name.

Her face is way too close to Even’s. If her demeanor isn’t enough to indicate how drunk she is, he can surely smell it on her breath.

“I mean, like, you just stopped talking to me!” She continues despite Even’s uncomfortableness and Emma’s attempts to pull her away. “Like, poof! You were gone!” She’s still smiling but her voice is losing its tipsy charm. “And you never even told me why, Even,” she’s poking at his chest now. “Like one week you were asking me to marry you and to move away with you and buying me things and I thought you were crazy in love with me.” Her eyes are starting to water. “And then radio silence for days on end and then it’s over.”

Everything inside him is either burning fire or icy cold.

He can’t tell her. He doesn’t even know himself. His own thoughts—screaming and then evaporating into the void—if he can barely handle them, how can someone else? He feels like a hypocrite for ever being selfish enough to be with her in the first place. And now, here he is, reminded by and hating himself for it while Isak—someone new and different—someone who might as well have been a dream—stands across the room and tunes into him.

Even can tell other people are tuning in, too, despite the party continuing around them.

Freezing, The only movement Even can make it out the door—Sonja opening it behind him and yelling something he doesn’t have the energy to pay attention to or understand before Emma pulls her back in.

He’s embarrassed. Annoyed. It’s not fair that his mind drifts to Isak and how, in whatever way shape or form, whether it be with his body or his lips or something else entirely, he’s the only one Even wants to be near to take it all away and make him forget. And this thought curdles his brain into something sour to remind him how wrong it is. How wrong his brain is in every way it can be and he feels sick.

A deep breath in. A long one out. Over and over again to calm himself—he has all of these tricks. To help himself because no one else seems to want to. He twirls the bouncy ball in his pocket between his fingers and counts the spins.

He starts to walk faster down the hallway of the apartment building when he hears the door open again, the party growing loud for a moment before shutting. And then footsteps. And then Isak. And his heart sinks and then lifts.

“Do you have a key?” Isak asks, slightly out of breath as he jogs up next to Even.

“To what?” Even doesn’t bother turning his head.

“The record store?” 

 

———

 

They sit on the floor, backs propped against the counters beside each other with bent knees. Even doesn’t dare turn the lights on. The streetlamps outside shine through the large glass windows of the record store—just enough to make out the posters and sleeves and stickers that litter the wood-paneled walls. He’s read them all what feels like a million times before anyone speaks.

“What happened?” Isak asks. He tilts his leg over to bump Even’s knee with his own. 

Even sighs. “You saw,” he whispers, closing his eyes and leaning his head back too hard against the counter. It hurts, but he bottles it up by biting his lip.

“No,” Isak clarifies. “I mean, everything.”

As the seconds tick by unanswered, Even feels like an hourglass. All of the words are sand sinking from his mouth to his stomach. The longer he waits, the less he has to say, and this is what always happens. This is why his confident cool-guy mask is wearing thin. This is dangerous.

“I just,” Even starts, bringing a hand up to his forehead, smoothing his hair back and opening his eyes. Staring at the ceiling. Not even knowing where to begin. “Lash out sometimes,” he continues. A deep breath in. A deep breath out. “And then shut in on myself. She doesn’t deserve that.” He tilts his head down, still too wary to look Isak in the eye so he looks at his knees instead. “No one does. But now there’s this,” Even gestures his hand between the two of them, laughing slightly because he’s nervous.

Isak narrows his eyes, as if he’s confused, and Even realizes _this_ might have been the wrong word entirely, that there might not even _be_ a this. That he’s fully all too far inside his own head, drowning in the daydreams. Losing himself to whatever takes over when he can’t sit still or sit up.

Whether to hurt or help Even, Isak ignores the comment. Even feels a finger under his chin, tipping it up to look into eyes he knows are green but look black because of the night.

“Do you want to take your mind off of it?” Isak asks. It’s an open invitation for whatever Even wants, and it’s almost dreamlike how Even just _knows_ that it is. He could say yes. No. Suggest anything. And Isak would be okay with it.

“That’s all I ever want to do,” Even nods, leaning forward and kissing Isak. It’s hungry right away, and it does exactly what he wants it to.

Isak is so easy to focus on. The way he softly touches Even’s face, dragging lax fingers down the side of his neck to rest in the crook there. The way he seems to say something with this kiss, like he’s been waiting for it. He’s a sensation in his own right, a gut feeling, and an emotion and an invitation Even has never known before but gladly immerses himself in. Like water. A dream. He loses himself in it without a way to get out.

It’s so enveloping he’s able to laugh away those nettling warning signs that flare up whenever he kisses Isak. Neon red behind his eyes. They mean nothing compared to _this._

And _this. This_ is such a tricky word. Yet all Even wants is _this._ He could do _this_ forever, whatever _this_ is. 

“Is your mind off of it?” Isak asks, pulling away.

“No,” Even admits, leaning back in, as if he can’t breathe without it. “Kiss me until it is.”

Isak shifts his position. Hooks a leg around Even’s lap. Sets his full weight on Even’s thighs and Even’s head is _swimming_ because they never get to do this. They never get to be like this. Isak never gets to kiss him like this without the nagging notion that someone could come walking in at any second. Always with fluorescent lights and concrete walls.

And yet Isak doesn’t ask for more. He doesn’t rock his hips or bite at Even’s lips and try to insinuate anything. He just kisses Even. Like Even asked him to. Careful with his feelings. Brushing his thumb along Even’s cheek when they kiss as if he’s checking for tears and smiling over his lips when Even smiles because he notices.

“Take my mind off of it,” Even whispers through the kiss, hands gliding down Isak’s middle until they’re gripping his hips softly. He breaks away to find Isak searching him—eyes boring into what can only be his soul.

Isak gets it. He kisses Even again, this time a little fiercer. This time with hands undoing buttons and with his weight rocking in Even’s lap. It sets all his nerve endings on fire to have Isak this close and so uninterrupted. His brain truly shuts off. His body takes over.

Their kiss becomes sloppy when they focus less on the technique of it and more on their hands finding any skin they can under clothes, and Even isn’t even remotely embarrassed about how bad he wants to be touched. He lets Isak know it—offering his body, every cell of it, for Isak to unravel completely in any way he can. He stretches his legs up, scooting Isak deeper into his lap. He breathes heavy, turning his neck to the side so Isak can kiss it. He lets his own hands roam, too, his desire to touch and be touched almost equal. He’s never been so upset, so soothed, and now so turned on before.

“How?” Isak breathes.

Even wants to say _like this_ but the gravity of the situation fills the room and weighs it down, like they both know. Like yet another made up bridge in Even’s mind that, once crossed, burns behind him so he’s unable to go back. Like everything _more_ with Isak makes Even a little _more_ wrong.

Chuckling nervously, Even drags a hand down his face. “I never have any idea what I’m doing,” he smiles at Isak, who kisses the corner of his mouth softly.

“It’s okay,” Isak nods, his lips thinning into a genuine smile when he pulls away. “It’s all up to you.”

Even contemplates, yet all he can think of is Isak in his lap. How Isak makes it all go away. “Take these off,” Even tugs at Isak’s belt loops, slipping them down slightly with the button he’s seemed to already have undone in the midst of their kiss.

With a smile, Isak rises, clumsily slips his legs out while Even takes the free moment to do the same to his own pants, and resumes his position back in Even’s lap. It’s impossible not to notice that he’s fully hard, and without the pressure of his jeans, Isak’s dick is pressing firmly against Even’s lower stomach. Isak twitches it a little on purpose, his eyebrow raised when he feels Even inevitably get hard under him.

“Look what you did to me,” Isak leans forward, kissing Even. He moves his hips up, the friction of nothing but cotton between them now making Even whimper into the kiss.

Even—overwhelmed with the sensation currently and with the thought of what’s to come—indulges in it. He reaches into Isak’s boxers and lightly grips his dick, tugging up once slowly before repeating the motion in what he knows is only enough to tease him.

“You have to lead the way,” Even whispers, unsure. He kisses the corner of Isak’s mouth, open in pleasure as he rocks his hips into Even’s hand.

Even smiles at the sight of it, opening his mouth to trace his tongue along Isak’s lip before grabbing the hem of his boxers and tugging down, and Isak lifts his hips to let him, the fabric resting around the tops of his thighs before he’s slipping his legs out of them clumsily and returns—full weight on Even—completely naked on his bottom half.

“You just sit,” Isak grinds his hips down, Even’s dick settling between his cheeks—only separated by the thin cotton of his own boxers. 

Even’s head is light—his hands have a mind of their own. He grips Isak’s hips; squeezes his ass and spreads it while Isak makes a show of turning him on with every bit of friction that’s making Even’s cock pulse involuntarily. 

“Are you ready?” Even asks, hands gliding down the back of Isak’s thighs and back up again to his ass, spreading it again with hovering fingers. He’s a little nervous. He’s never done this before, not even to himself. He’s not even sure if what he’s asking is making any sense.

“I got myself ready before,” Isak winks at him, sliding himself higher into Even’s lap so he’s sitting perfectly on his dick. He rocks up and down slowly, and Even is powerless to stop him as Isak starts to tip him over the edge from just this alone.

Even closes his eyes and pictures it: Isak in his bedroom before people start to filter into their apartment. Laying on his bed with spread legs and fingers buried inside himself. His cock hard and flush against his stomach as he lies down, leaving it untouched. Even bites his bottom lip at the thought, trying to keep himself together.

“But if you want to touch me,” Isak continues, whispering in Even’s ear, “I wouldn’t say no.”

With shaking fingers resting over Isak’s rim—wanting badly to—Even hesitates for a moment. He tunes in to Isak, whose face is dropping just at the hint of it—whose hips can’t keep still.

Slowly, Even makes sure to take in every inch of Isak’s expression as he pushes one finger inside him. His face alone is a twist of bliss—pupils rolling back with fluttering eyelids. Lips parted and jaw dropped, nevertheless curling up in a smile once Even’s finger is all the way inside. It’s just this look that makes Even almost forget where he is there’s no blood left in his head.

A key in the lock of the backroom door, though, makes him remember _exactly_ where he is.

Isak hears it, too—tensing and wincing as Even pulls his finger out too fast. But they stay frozen to the spot, Isak hovering half naked over Even on the floor, and if that wasn’t enough, just one look on their faces—shiny lips and ruined hair and love bites littering their neck and jaws—it would give it all away.

Even watches Isak’s face—eyes wide in fear as someone steps into the back room. Not a breath in or out from either of them. All Even can do is pray that whoever is back there doesn’t step through the beaded curtain—and that they can’t hear his heart flying in violent thuds.

Seconds turn into a minute. Maybe two. And when the back door opens again after some rummaging, clicking with the lock behind them, Even can finally exhale.

Isak collapses into him, laughing.

“Jonas,” Isak explains, his giggling turning into a groan. He keeps his cheek pressed to Even’s neck—his whole body heavy. “He told me earlier he kept some green here because he didn’t want anyone at the party to snoop and find it. I totally forgot.”

Even’s only able to take it in on a word-by-word basis. Each making sense by themselves, but strung together—he can’t figure out what Isak’s saying. His heart is still pounding. He knows Isak, pressed against him, can feel it.

“Hey,” Isak pulls back, smoothing a hand over Even’s forehead. “It’s okay. He didn’t see us. We’re fine.”

“Never again,” Even deadpans.

Isak looks taken aback.

“I mean,” Even huffs, closing his eyes and grasping for words through deep breaths he can’t seem to catch. “Here.” He gestures around the record store.

Isak nods—kisses him, and it’s the only thing Even’s not too tense to absorb. He lets him, and for once, the warning signs don’t flare.

Isak traces his thumb down Even’s cheek. Searches his eyes for something. “Never again,” he repeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on [Tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


	4. dancing

One day turns to two, and then two to three.

Even draws lazy shapes into an undefined figure in his green sketchbook on the counter of the record store as July slowly turns Oslo into a ghost town. He stands, bored, for three straight days without so much as a ghost of Isak’s presence. He doesn’t dare ask Jonas where he’s been. Doesn’t dare call. Doesn’t dare walk by the Kjærlighetskarusell.

But he does wonder—maybe Isak left for vacation. Maybe he doesn’t want anything to do with Even again. Maybe he’s running from something unknown, just how Even always is. 

There are so many things Even wants to know about Isak—so many things that would layer him into a fleshed out person, and not just the picture Even has painted behind his eyelids whenever he closes them.

By the end of the week, the record store will be closed for fellesferie and Even will have no real reason to see Isak—these three days stretching into three weeks and letting time turn memories to dust, hoping to dissolve the awkwardness so they can pick up as normal as it can be.

Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe the universe gave Even Isak so he could finally have a glimpse of an answer—yes this is who he is. Yes this is all he gets. _But at least you know._

Just when that thought seems almost comforting, the phone rings.

“Grooves, this is Even.”

“Hi, Even.”

There’s no mistaking the voice. It’s Isak. The grin on Even’s face is shameless, and even if it wasn’t, it’s unavoidable. 

“Hi,” he breathes, a smile in his own reply.

“What are you doing for fellesferie?” Isak asks, mischief strung through his words like he’s up to no good.

Even shrugs. “Nothing,” he remembers to say, as if Isak can see him through the phone.

“Great,” Isak responds. “Looks like we’ll be doing nothing together.”

 

———

 

The grass is wet from the rain earlier, but that doesn’t stop Isak from falling to the ground under the tree outside the Kjærlighetskarusell in a satisfied slump. He closes his eyes and splays his arms and legs, letting the sunlight trying to break free from the clouds find his face. There’s a little chocolate ice cream on his chin, which they had to get from the grocery store because the shops were closed.

Even just watches a little indulgently. When Isak notices him not following his lead, he peeks an eye open and pats the grass beside him welcomingly.

Side by side, but not touching, they lie in the grass.

“What’s it like to have a girlfriend?” Isak breaks the silence, catching Even off guard. His pointer finger traces up the underside of Even’s arm when he asks, like he’s not even curious about his own question. As if he’s asking something else.

 _It’s like this._ Even doesn’t say it.

“I think people are starting to get suspicious,” Isak admits. His finger traces down now. Even lets it. “I’ve never had one. Jonas keeps trying to set me up. And he’s starting to notice he doesn’t need to. If I wanted one, I’m sure I could get one—girls talk to me all the time.”

When Isak’s finger starts to draw circles in Even’s palm, Even catches it, lacing it and the rest with his own.

“Why are you here in Oslo for fellesferie?” Even changes the subject, turning his head to look at Isak.

Tensing, Isak lets Even hold his hand for a moment before pulling away. “Someone might see,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and letting his hands find a new home under his head—elbows pointed as his arms make wide triangles in the grass. “I like Oslo like this,” he shrugs. “I feel like I can breathe.”

Even can tell he’s hiding something. 

“Why are _you_ here in Oslo for fellesferie?” Isak jokes, rolling on his side with his head propped up by one hand and the other jabbing Even’s chest. “Don’t you have friends or something?”

Even winces, but plays it off by shoving Isak’s hand away with a cautious laugh.

“I’m too nerdy for friends,” Even wiggles his eyebrows. “That’s why I’m here with you—just another nerd.”

“Excuse me,” Isak drops his jaw in fake offense. “First of all, when I accused you of being a nerd you were _way_ too quick to shut that down and defend yourself with being _pretentious_ of all things, like that’s any better— _ouch!”_

Even shoves him in the shoulder, biting his tongue to hide how Isak remembering makes him smile like an idiot. 

“Besides,” Isak counteracts. “I like being a nerd.”

“Oh yeah?” Even challenges, eyebrows shooting up and chin dropping—rolling on his side to mirror Isak.

“Yeah,” Isak tips his chin up smugly, his pointy features catching all the right shadows.

Even wants to kiss him. Badly. To hold his face and grab his overgrown curls and just kiss him until he can’t remember his name. Until all there is is Isak. So he stands, brushing loose grass from his jeans as he turns without a word and strides down the small hill towards the Kjærlighetskarusell. He looks over his shoulder to see Isak, smiling but confused as he almost trips over himself to follow.

And they must share this thought, because once they both round the exterior—their concrete prison left and right and up and down—they grab each others’ faces and smile into a kiss. Open mouths way too fast. Giggle into each other's’ throats at the absurdity of it—how happy they are allowed to be right here.

Even’s mind flashes to all the places he imagined this same scenario earlier. Wandering the empty streets of Oslo. Window shopping in all the closed shops and popping their heads around every barren corner to finally find something open—a corner market where they got ice cream. To laying in the grass and talking. Laughing. _Being._

 _It’s like this._ Even doesn’t say it.

Isak backs him up against the sink through their kiss, and Even can tell he’s smiling. His hands make their way up through the fabric of Even’s shirt, touching his skin made warm from the summer day. Isak’s fingertips curl, digging into his flesh to pull him closer, like he can’t get enough. The touch makes Even’s whole body slowly melt from the inside out. Until his muscles are soft and malleable and bending to Isak’s every whim. When Isak pulls, Even follows. When he asks, Even answers.

Isak’s body flush against his makes his face hot—he can feel it. His cheeks and ears red and warm with blood. It fills his brain with something he thinks is lust—or maybe it’s a bit greater than that—until it pours south through his body and his cock starts to stir when Isak presses his hips forward to let Even feel the same effect he has on him.

Even’s grip slides down Isak’s back until his wide hands cup Isak’s ass just below the waistband of his boxers. 

A little sound escapes Isak, and it’s soft and needy. He melts against Even, preening himself into every inch of his palms as he bends forward and arches his back to let Even grip him better. With both hands, Even spreads Isak’s cheeks under the layers of his clothes and Isak moans louder into his mouth around their kiss.

Isak’s usually not like this—letting Even take over so much control.

“Please fuck me,” Isak breathes, breaking away to kiss Even’s jaw. “It’s all I ever think about.” He seems to freeze against Even after the words have had a second to settle. “I mean—I’m sorry. I don’t want to push you into doing anything you don’t want. I know it almost happened at the record store but if you’ve changed your mind I totally under—”

Even feels his dick get fully hard, pressing uncomfortably at the zipper of his jeans at the words. There’s no sirens flaring. No backpedaling. No thoughts of bridges to cross that burn behind him. There’s only Isak, Even’s mere consent away from being around him—from hearing little sounds and curses fall from his lips at Even’s touch. His eyes flutter at just the thought.

Even kisses Isak in the middle of his sputtering. “It’s all you think about?” He teases through their lips sliding open—Isak’s muscles relaxing against him, thumbing at the button of Isak’s jeans before undoing it—the zipper, too—and shoving them down to his upper thighs. He palms Isak’s dick—practically with it’s own heartbeat—and feels him try to cling to Even further, as if that will give him any relief.

There’s a smile on Even’s lips when Isak moans at the mere touch, trying to fuck into his hand.

A wave of confidence dances over Even—something familiar but something that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. _This_ is Even. The Even only Even seems to remember, while old friends and family skirted around the awkwardness that lingered between them when things started to get _weird._ When things were hot and cold and then fine and then hot and cold again for seemingly no reason. And then they started to treat Even like Even didn’t exist. And then they must have thought he did.

But when Even is with Isak. Fuck. Even can’t help but smile at the thought. He can almost forget the guilt and the confusion of how he’s supposed to be and replace it with normalcy. Confidence. Certainty. He misses feeling this way.

“It’s all I think about,” Isak repeats, breaking away and looking Even in the eyes with shiny lips and dilated pupils. He wants to be taken so bad—Even can see it all over his face.

“How?” Even asks, kicking himself mentally at the simple question.

But Isak knows what he means. “I think we should go to the stall,” he jerks his head softly—blond curls bouncing—back towards it. His grinds his hips forward into Even’s hand, still around his cock, and Even feels the wetness of precome on his boxers. He watches Isak’s eyes flutter closed at the simple touch. 

“Okay,” Even agrees, kissing him once on the lips. The chin. The jaw. His neck. Feeling Isak dissolve into him with every touch before detaching and taking a step in the direction of the stalls.

Even pushes the orange painted metal of the stall door open—chipped in some places to reveal black metal and red rust. The feeling of grossness washes over him for a moment as he remembers where exactly he is. Isak follows him in, and the toilet, equally as old and unkempt looking, doesn’t help the feeling.

The whole atmosphere changes when Isak shuts the door and slides the lock of the stall behind them.

“You’ll have to prep me,” Isak seems to warn, like he notices Even’s shift in nerves. “Or you can watch me do it myself.”

Even comes back to the moment. He looks slightly down at Isak, still just as wide-eyed with lust but somehow more nervous. “I want to,” he whispers, slipping his long fingers down the sides of Isak’s boxers—letting his knuckles catch the waistband and pull them down until Isak is fully exposed.

One look at Isak’s cock—red and flushed up against his hip—and Even is almost able to forget where he is.

“It’s not wet,” Isak cautions, almost with a little sass this time—like he _knows_ Even knows, but wants to clarify anyway to avoid any confusion just in case. “Like a girl.” He bends over slightly to rummage through the pockets of his jeans now slumping by his knees. He procures a small container of Vaseline.

“I’ve beat off before, Isak,” Even smiles, taking it from him. He folds his long legs, getting onto his knees until he’s level with Isak’s naked bottom half.

Isak’s dick twitches when Even’s face gets closer, and, unexpectedly, Even mouths at the side of it—feeling Isak go weak in the knees.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Even says, breaking away to twist the cap off the Vaseline and dip his fingers in.

“Stop saying that,” Isak almost laughs, tipping his head back with a shit eating grin—each foot taking a step outwards until his legs are spread. “I’ll tell you what I like. Or don’t like,” he says at the ceiling before looking back down at Even with something a little more smug. “Just start very slow.”

The first thought that hits Even is he has no idea where to look. Back at the record store it was easy. Isak in his lap—every skin cell touching. Kissing. It was like one seamless movement. But right now there are so many puzzle pieces—so many parts of them unconnected.

Hesitantly, Even reaches between Isak’s legs, finds his rim, and slowly drags his finger lengthwise up and down over it. He watches Isak’s face, which tightens a bit at first from the coldness of the lube, but relaxes into something absolutely divine when Even starts to massage circles around his rim. He sees Isak’s dick twitch somewhere below his chin, and a thick pearl of precome bead out at the tip.

Even rests his pointer finger on Isak’s hole, raising his eyebrows and waiting to catch Isak’s gaze, which is turned upwards with closed eyes and shallow breaths.

When Isak looks down, he nods.

Even carefully slides about a third of his finger up into Isak, who winces slightly. 

“Relax,” Even soothes, kissing Isak’s hip. He slides the rest of his finger slowly inside Isak, who inhales with it. When Even slips it back out of him—but not completely—Isak follows with a broken exhale that turns into a moan as Even starts to gently fuck him with his finger.

Isak feels… tight. And hot. And only now that he’s finally relaxed is when Even realizes how painfully hard he is himself—a wet spot on the front of his jeans visible over the outline of his cock pressed firmly against the fabric.

Clumsily, with his free hand, Even undoes the button of his own jeans and shimmies them down around the knees he’s kneeling on. He reaches into his boxers and starts to stroke himself—resting his forehead on Isak’s hip as he tries not to let out an audible groan of pleasure at the feeling of his hand on himself and his other slowly fucking Isak.

When he looks up, Isak is watching him with a smile he can barely muster through the dropped _O_ shape of his mouth—interrupted by little gulps that swallow all the sounds and curses that try to fall from his lips. He lets a few slide out—moans high in his throat and groans deep in his belly. Every time Even slides his finger into Isak, he can feel Isak’s legs start to tremble and go weak at the knees.

He has to stop touching himself—this alone will send him over the edge.

 _“Fuck,”_ Isak pants, leaning back against the stall door now for support as his legs seem practically useless to hold him upright. “Right there— _oh my god_ —use two, please.” 

Even feels Isak reach—blindly, as his mouth opens and eyes close—for Even. There’s a hand on Even’s jaw. His cheek. It reaches to his hair and pulls at the loose waves grown out over his ears. He pulls tighter when Even, slower now, slips two fingers into Isak, dragging down softly and watching his face scrunch at first, and then smile—literally the sexiest smile Even has ever seen—when he pushes back up into Isak.

“Faster, please,” Isak pants, and his other arm starts reaching for something—the side of the stall, anything—for support. His legs almost melt when Even obliges, two fingers slipping into Isak and curling on the way back out.

Noticing his lack of composure, Even freezes for a second, motions for Isak to step his leg out of his pants bunched around his ankles, and hooks the now free limb over Even’s shoulder—the back of Isak’s knee resting there with his calf dangling down Even’s back.

The added stability—despite Isak now only being on one leg—let’s him rest most of his body weight against Even as he uses his free hand to grip Isak’s hip and thigh.

Only now, in this position, Isak’s cock—red and thick and coated with shiny precome, is right in Even’s face, practically brushing his cheek with every thrust of his fingers as Isak bounces with it.

It’s tempting—begging for Even’s mouth. So unexpectedly, with a long, low sound and a string of curses Even will never forget spilling out of Isak, he takes him in his mouth.

Even moans at the weight of Isak’s dick on his tongue, giving a slight jerk in his mouth. It’s sloppy—he has nothing to steady himself—but Even slides his lips to the base, letting his flat tongue trace the underside, and hallows his cheeks the best he can up Isak’s length. His other hand works in tandem—fingers slipping in and out.

“No,” Isak moans, pushing his hips forward and following Even, practically fucking into his mouth. “No, no no,” he whines, his body language contradictory to his words.

Even can’t help but smile at it. He stops anyway, fingers slipping out, and looks up to Isak, practically laughing. Isak’s face tells a different story—he’s got one hand still in Even’s hair. The other is on his forehead. He looks like a mess—panting and red and wobbly. Barely able to stand. Barely able to talk.

“Don’t make me come yet,” Isak laughs, breaking into a smile. “Fuck. Oh my god. Look at you.” He says it fondly, with traces of lust strewn through his face. “You expect me to last when you’re doing _that,”_ he gestures around vaguely. “Looking like _that?_ Fuck,” his face softens a bit, the fondness growing. “I want you in me more than anything.”

“Are you ready?” Even asks.

Isak nods, reaching for the container of Vaseline Even placed on top of the toilet paper dispenser and handing it to him. He turns around and braces his forearms against the stall door—legs spreads and bent over slightly.

Even puts the lube on his palm, gripping himself—and he realizes just how much his own dick has been neglected through all of this. The slip of his hand up sends a shudder through his body. He realizes he needs more, and the slide of his hand—from base to tip and back again as he coats his dick enough to be inside Isak sends beads of precome dripping down his length. He can barely last with his own hand—how the hell is he supposed to last inside Isak? Watching his legs tremble and his eyes flutter closed?

They’re both ready. But when Even blinks, he sees it—a bridge. In his hand is a match, and all around him is gasoline. He’s about to have sex. With a boy. And once he crosses that bridge, the match will fall from his hand and char it to bits. Crumbling behind him. Unable to trek back over.

But Isak turns his head to the side—profile and complexion still somehow the most beautiful thing Even has seen even under these fluorescent lights—and his insides still. From a fumbling fox trot to a slow waltz. Even eyes him up and down—from the curls on his head past his t-shirt clothed torso and down the length of his naked bottom half. Waiting for him. Every inch beautiful.

“Are _you_ ready?” Isak sasses playfully, and Even feels something twist in his stomach. A stray dancer twirling out of line but in a delighted, show-offy way. Something he hasn’t felt before—appreciation, maybe? But he’s felt that for Isak plenty of times. It’s like that, but deeper.

Even stands behind Isak. “Yes,” he whispers, kissing his neck. And he means it. Isak opens up to let him—tilts his head to the side to expose his skin and let Even suck a red bruise beneath the collar of his shirt. He feels Isak’s throat vibrate with a moan while Even lines up behind him—pressing his cock between his cheeks teasingly before gripping the base and massaging the tip against Isak’s hole, catching on the rim.

Isak preens back, arching into it and letting not even half of the tip in. They freeze there for a moment, and Isak exhales. “Just go slow... at first,” he says.

Even, excruciatingly so, pushes inside Isak—the tightness enveloping his cock centimeter by centimeter as he judges Isak’s body language—too tense. So he slows. When he’s finally all the way inside—his hips pressed firmly against Isak’s cheeks, he notices he hasn’t taken a breath yet. He exhales into Isak’s neck. Kisses it. And his jaw. Until he feels Isak’s face tighten into a smile.

“Fuck, Isak,” Even breathes, bracing himself with one arm extended and pressed into the stall door by Isak’s forearm. The other has made a home wrapped around Isak’s middle—Even’s wide hand ruffling up the fabric of Isak’s shirt and resting on his lower stomach. “This is…”

“Intense,” Isak agrees, nodding once with a shallow breath. “I’m good.” Another nod. “Please. I’m good. I want to feel you.”

Even slides his hips back and feels Isak drag tightly on his dick. His insides squirm in pleasure—tightening lowly as he tries to focus on something—anything. The chipped paint of the stall or the pattern in the ceiling. Just to last more than a few thrusts. Pressing on Isak’s belly to bring him back close, Even slides in again when the tip of his cock feels the pull of the end of Isak’s rim. A ripple of pleasure dances up his spine and makes itself known with a little moan into Isak’s ear. It embarasses Even a bit—this sound making him vulnerable at just two thrusts.

Even fucks Isak slowly. So slowly. Partly because Isak feels so fragile beneath him—trembling legs and shaky breaths. And partly because if he doesn’t, Even will come.

At nine thrusts—yes, Even is counting, because he needs something to distract him and something to regulate him—he feels his cock pulse and his lower belly melting through his thighs and knees and down to his toes. Numbness. Whiteout numbness behind his eyes and then an avalanche of pleasure back up through his whole body to his brain at ten thrusts. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Who knows, he can’t count anymore—unable to. As he comes into Isak.

“I’m so sorry,” he all but mouths on Isak’s neck when he returns to reality—body solidifying again. Even slides out—the last pull on his sensitive dick making him twitch.

Isak turns around, a kind smile on his face. 

He reaches up, and Even feels Isak’s thumb trace over his jaw—then his cheek as he tries to regulate his breathing. 

“You look…” Isak trails, tilting his head. Even’s eyes start to focus back, watching Isak scan his face. “So beautiful.”

Even laughs shortly, almost self-deprecating, and he can feel his eyes crinkle up with it. 

Isak doesn’t let go of his face. He leans in for a kiss.

It catches Even off guard, but there’s a healing property to it. It’s open, but not heavy. There’s tongue, but it’s not sexual. As if it’s a thank you, almost. And not for the sex. For just being—Isak is thanking him for just being. Even feels stinging on the back of his eyelids—emotions after the comedown like heavy rain.

So he focuses on Isak. The kiss. It’s healing powers and the person administering them—how Isak doesn’t see Even the way everyone else does. The way Even was slowly starting to see himself, too.

They kiss for minutes. Hours. Who knows. Until the raw feeling of Isak—literally just the person he is—the person he makes Even believe he can be, causes him to stir again. Until he wants to be inside Isak again. To feel everything and then nothing and then everything again in a way that doesn’t scare him. In a way Isak accepts as the truth. Accepts unafraid. Accepts wholly, because in small amounts, they are one in the same.

“Round two?” Isak asks, and this time, at least to Even, it’s something else entirely.

 

———

 

The summer days are so long. Even and Jonas switch shifts at the record store daily, because it’s so dead there’s no reason they both need to be there. They close early, and on Mondays they don’t even open at all. 

Sunlight is bright in the large glass windows. Two hours since Even has been here and no one has walked through the doors.

Even hears the beaded curtain rusle behind him, though, and can’t help but smile at the quick steps that can only belong to Isak.

He likes these days. He likes this summer. It’s private, in a way, and yet intimate. He likes spending time with Isak—half of Even’s daydreams consist of how happy he is to have met him.

“What are you drawing?” Isak’s breath is quick on the back of Even’s neck. There’s a smile in his voice—Even can hear it before Isak leans on the counter of Grooves next to him. Then he can see it.

Even, embarrassed, tries to close his sketchbook. “Nothing,” he’s quick to say, but Isak’s quicker at snatching it from his hands and flipping through the pages.

“I didn’t know you could draw so well,” Isak whispers, amazed. He’s staring at a detailed portrait of Sonja towards the front of the sketchbook—Even did it awhile ago. Isak flips the page and frowns a bit confused at just a bunch of black scribbles. His eyebrows tighten when he flips again to see a loose sketch of a cartoon-like self portrait of Even with no eyes. “These are good,” he nods, impressed, flipping through the middle half a little faster.

Even’s teetering on the edge of decision—should he rip the sketchbook from Isak now, or just let him see?

He’s a little too late making up his mind. Isak smiles fondly—almost melts in place—when he turns the page to see a small, stylized version of himself in the corner. Gap teeth. Curly hair. Everything pointy—nose and jaw and upper lip. He drags his thumb lightly over the corner and smudges the fresh ink—his smile grows a little wider when he realizes this is what Even was working on just a moment ago.

“Can I have it?” Isak asks, still studying the drawing.

“Sure,” Even agrees, a little relieved at Isak’s reaction. He gently takes the green, leather-bound sketchbook from Isak’s hands and tears out the page, handing it to him.

With what Even thinks is sentiment on Isak’s face, he takes the drawing, stares for another minute, and then folds it once before putting it into his back pocket. “Thank you,” Isak smiles. “I love it.”

“You love it?” Even asks, and they both catch the word being used.

“Yes,” Isak’s face eases into a soft grin. “I love it very much.”

They stare at each other for a moment, gooey smiles on their faces. Even wants to kiss him—but this is enough. It’s nice to talk to Isak like this, without the threat of eager ears around the corner.

“Did you sleep in?” Even asks, changing the subject and glancing at the clock.

“Yeah,” Isak yawns. He swings his legs up on the counter and sits on it next to Even, who’s found a comfortable position leaning against it. “You wore me out last night,” he jokes, elbowing Even in the side.

Even turns to him and raises his eyebrows. “Me?” He looks around the room playfully. “You’re tired because of me?”

“Fuck off,” Isak laughs, biting his bottom lip.

“Too tired to…” Even trails, dancing one finger up Isak’s thigh—tight in his jeans from sitting. “See me tonight?”

“You’ve fucked me for like four straight days,” Isak cocks his head to the side, looking at Even with a skeptical smile. “My ass is sore.”

“We could do something else,” Even shrugs his shoulders, lips pouting into an indifferent frown.

Isak pauses—his head jerks back a little to send blonde curls bouncing. His eyes are narrowed, and he gives Even a once over. Checking him out. “Oh yeah?” He asks. “Like what?” He tips his chin up, lips following into a flirty sneer.

Even grows nervous. “We could get ice cream,” he offers stupidly.

“Have you ever touched yourself, Even?” Isak ignores him. His smile grows more curious—little gapped teeth starting to show through his lips. “Paint me a picture.”

“Yes,” Even defends, shoving Isak’s thigh mock-offended. “I’ve touched myself, c’mon.”

“You know what I mean,” Isak clarifies. “Have you ever…” he starts, waiting for Even to catch on. “...Fingered yourself?”

The color drains from Even’s face, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh,” he fumbles, trying to keep cool. The question doesn’t intimidate him, but no, okay, he hasn’t. “I mean—”

“It feels good,” Isak whispers, jumping down from the counter to sigh it into Even’s ear, almost as if he’s remembering fondly. It sends a shiver up Even’s spine. Isak grabs a handful of Even’s ass on the way down. “It feels _really_ good.”

 

———

 

There’s no way Even’s going into this sober.

Sitting in his windowsill—ceiling fan on full blast—he sparks a fat joint (courtesy of Jonas). Inhaling until his lungs burn with it, he holds the hit in his chest until there’s almost no smoke left to blow out. He exhales out the screen of his open window. Another hit. And another. Until the joint is short and his eyes are low. Until his mind is mellow—stray thoughts here and there clinging for a bit before dissolving away as they try and fail to cultivate in Even’s mind. Until his dick is sitting heavy between his legs when those thoughts stray to Isak.

Maybe he smoked a little too much. Or maybe the stuff Jonas gave him is a little stronger than usual. He can feel the blood in his veins. He can always feel it, he assumes—it’s part of him. But it’s as if every red and white cell—every mitochondria and nucleus—bump into each other throughout his body. He feels it all drain south. He feels his boxers against his dick, which is chubbing up at the mere thought of what he’s about to do.

Moving to the bed, Even flops down on his stomach and stretches his arms above his head while his legs dangle off the side. He curls his toes. Elongates his whole body over his duvet and thinks of how nice it would be to have Isak here wrapped up in it. Comfy and high and sleepy. Touching each other lazily. It’s that thought, coupled with that feeling, that makes Even’s dick give an interested twitch. He almost wants to tell it to stop for being such a sap.

He tucks his knees up under him, the front of his body still flush against the bed. Lifting his hips, he reaches his hand under his boxers and begins to tug slowly at his dick.

In all honesty, he’s thinking of nothing in particular. The fog in his head settles heavy around him, coating his room in a cozy, unfocused glow. He just focuses on how _good_ his body feels like this—bent over and exposed. He grips the duvet with one hand, balling it in his fist to ground himself while he moves his hips slowly.

When the feeling becomes a little monotonous, Even realizes he’s been spoiled. 

Flipping over, he grabs the phone on his bedside table. He tells himself it’s too late to back out after the first spin of the rotary—heart beating forcibly in his chest as it rings.

“Hello?” Isak’s voice is a little staticky on the other end.

Even breathes out a sigh of relief. “Hi,” he greets, body growing cold as his high reminds him he called with no real motive.

“Even?” Isak asks. There’s some muffling, like Isak’s covering the receiver on the other end to check for someone. A long pause and some clicking, like maybe he’s switched rooms. “It’s like, half past twenty-three. What are you doing?”

“I can’t do this without you,” Even admits—his intonation throaty and sultry; his hand lazily palming at his dick, which is now harder than before just from hearing Isak’s voice.

“Are you touching yourself?” Isak whispers, maybe realizing their conversation earlier. “Fuck.”

“Does that turn you on?” Even teases. “I need help. You’ve spoiled me.”

There’s a long exhale on Isak’s end. “Fuck, Even. What if Jonas or Magnus picks up the phone?”

“We don’t have to—” Even starts.

“What are you thinking about?” Isak interrupts him.

“Oh,” Even laughs. The end of the word catches in his throat, turning into a moan as the next tug on his thickening cock makes him shudder. “Straight to business, I guess.”

“Are you thinking of me?” Isak asks. “Of me sucking your dick?”

“Shit, well now I am,” Even breathes, closing his eyes and writhing his lower half into his hand. He slows, wanting to make this last. “Well, I was going to try something,” he admits lowly, suddenly cautious. “And I was going to think of you, yes,” he pauses. “Of you fingering me.”

His high prolongs the silence. Makes him question the idea altogether.

“I bet you look so beautiful,” Isak quietly confesses. “You know you’re like, the hottest man alive, right?” He laughs away the sentiment, almost as an afterthought. “Shit, I wish I was there.”

“You’re telling me,” Even agrees with a pant. “Just hearing your voice turns me on so much.”

“I want to hear the sounds you make when you finally put some fingers inside yourself,” Isak says lowly. “Do it for me, baby.”

Even melts. He hurriedly pulls open the drawer of his nightstand, opens the Vaseline, and coats his fingers. Hesitation riles in him again as he rests his hand between his legs.

“Remember to relax,” Isak prepares him. “God I want to see you do this so bad.”

“I’m high as shit,” Even admits (and that coaxes a stifled laugh from Isak on the other end), “so I think we’re good on the relaxed part.”

Even starts by massaging his rim—wincing at first with the coldness of the lube but easing into it with a little sigh. He starts with one finger—just the tip—slipping it into himself with a gasp before sliding his long finger all the way in. When he drags down, pleasure pricks at his feet and tingles up his legs. He’s helpless to keep quiet.

“Fuck,” Even sighs, pushing his finger up inside himself again—long limbs spread on his bed and the pale plains of his naked chest and middle rocking up and down with deep breaths. “Fuck, you’re right,” Even repeats.

“I’m right?” Isak teases. “Tell me how good it feels.”

Even curls his finger on the way down this time, working faster as he continues to fuck himself with it. As he slides in again, he feels something jolt inside his lower stomach. Instead of dragging down again, he massages his finger inside himself and impulsively grabs his dick while he tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“I can’t—” Even breathes, pupils rolling back as he sees blue and purple blotches on the closed darkness of his eyelids. “Words. I can’t— Fuck. Say my name.”

“Only if you use two,” Isak bribes. “Use two for me, Even.”

Even smiles at how quickly Isak gives in. “Fine,” he agrees, not faltering as he gracefully slips all the way out of himself and seamlessly back in with two fingers, maybe a little too fast. It stretches him, but his high masks any pain.

He moans, long and loud into the receiver (fine, maybe it’s a little bit of a show—he wants Isak to know what he’s missing). “I want you to fuck me, Isak.” The thought cultivates as he says it, and he’s not ashamed.

There’s a hitched breath on the other end. “I bet you look so fucking good right now, Even. All opened up for me.”

Even tries to hide his orgasm—he’s doesn’t know why, maybe because he’s a little embarrassed—but he does a bad job of it. When Isak says his name he can’t help it—just a few light tugs on his cock, coupled with the feeling of his fingers, makes it throb in his hand almost immediately. He comes on his stomach—his breathing is fast and laboured, slowing down by the end of it.

“Fuck,” Even pants, chest heaving as his toes tingle. He slips his fingers out, every cell in his body on high-alert—each one sensitive to every touch. “Actually,” Even starts, closing his eyes. Satisfied. “You were wrong.”

“I was wrong?” Isak defends.

“Yeah,” Even breaths, a smile tugging up at his lips. “It feels fucking _amazing.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on [Tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


	5. dreaming

They’ve ditched Jonas’s party. A place that’s becoming dangerous to see each other. Too many drinks running through their veins. Too many glances across the room and touches when they pass by to seem innocent. Or maybe it was just the weed making them paranoid. Either way, a silent agreement passed between them in the apartment.

Even looks at the long lines of Isak’s back under soft cotton. At the sliver of pale skin on his lower torso exposed because of his ruffled shirt. At the back of his head—blonde curls a tangled mess because Even’s ran his hands through them so many times. At Isak’s hands pressed against the concrete wall to brace himself. And, of course, at Isak’s pants pulled halfway down to his knees, the twitching of his legs letting Even know he’s getting impatient.

He’s tired of doing it this way.

In all actuality, Even wishes concrete could be replaced with sheets. Echoey walls with pillows. The smell of _fucking toilets_ with an actual bed. Something, _anything_ other than this—this rushed, frightening, endorphin-inducing… thing. It’s more than sex to Even, but he doesn’t want to admit that yet. At night when he goes home, too many long days in-between the last time he’s seen Isak, he gets off on a fantasy of them doing it in an actual bed.

So yeah, Even’s tired of doing it this way. Tired of doing it in a fucking bathroom. Where they can’t lie down and they can’t be loud and they can’t take too long.

“Uhhh…” Isak starts, confused—chin turning over his shoulder to look at Even and _fuck._ Yep. That’s it. That’s the final straw. Even wants to see those dark green eyes half-closed in ecstasy. His cute, pointy mouth in a little _O_ that he can’t help. Even wants to know if Isak smiles when he hits the right spot. Wants to know if he closes his eyes when he comes. Wants to pour over every dimple and freckle on Isak’s face when he’s inside him. “Is everything ok?” Isak finishes, hinting at his impatience to Even’s hindrance.

No, it really fucking isn’t.

“I want to try something,” Even blurts, watching the corner of Isak’s mouth turn up in a smirk. He doesn’t move, though. His hands stay rooted to the walls. His feet to the floor.

“Okay,” Isak drags out the word, licking his bottom lip and he removes one hand and turns to face Even a little more, his full face in view now. “What do you want to try?”

“Turn around,” Even demands, grabbing Isak by the hips and twisting, causing a surprised, low giggle to escape him that echoes off the concrete. Even hears Isak whisper _handsy_ with a chuckle under his breath, and it’s teetering so crooked on the line of cute and hot that Even doesn’t know how long he’ll make it once they actually get going like this… if Isak will let him. “I want to face you,” Even admits lowly, the last word sticking to these cold walls and Even just _wishes_ and _prays_ and _dreams_ that one day this all will be soft and warm. That his confessions will be wrapped in a bedroom.

Isak looks around—first at the stalls and then at the sink. “No offense,” he starts with a slightly disappointed pout, “but I don’t really see how that’s possible without me or you somehow sitting on the sink or the toilet. And I’m not doing that.”

That thought hadn’t even crossed Even’s mind. “Take your pants all the way off,” he demands again—a heavy air of uncertainty, almost like Even built it with his breath as he said the words, lingering around them in the silence that follows. “Sorry,” Even bites his lip. “I know that’s risky. You don’t have—”

But Isak shuts him up with a kiss. It’s not long or thought-provoking or even hot, but the spontaneity of it makes Even’s heart scream. 

Isak takes his pants all the way off.

Another thing Even’s never seen—but always plays a part in his late night fantasies of Isak in an actual bed—is Isak naked. He’s almost greedy enough to ask Isak to take his shirt off, too.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

Even must not be very subtle right now (he knows he’s not subtle—his eyes are glued to Isak’s thighs), because almost as if Isak can read his mind, he bends his arms to the hem of his shirt and lifts slowly over his head. Blonde curls flop when the fabric is free from his skin—a smug smile on his lips and _Jesus Christ._ Long pale lines and planes of muscles and Isak is _beautiful._ Which means Even is a goner.

“You're not supposed to do this to me,” Even whispers, shaking his head almost involuntarily as Isak throws his shirt to the ground and takes a step forward—the smile on his face purely because he knows _exactly_ the effect he’s having on Even. “You're not supposed to make me feel this way.” Even’s heart is racing and the word _love_ is on the tip of his tongue—because it’s not just Isak’s body he’s afraid of. He’s gotten over that. Even’s afraid of the way Isak has turned love into a hurricane. Large and looming and powerful in the distance. An unstoppable force. Something that Even can only see and barely plan for.

And he knows it’s coming for him.

“No one is supposed to feel this way,” Isak admits, his confidence draining as he swallows the lump in his throat. Even feels the words sting the air, as if Isak has swallowed them whole and let them fester in his stomach acid one too many times. Rotting his insides before admitting it.

In one fell swoop, Even closes the distance. Hard—slamming Isak against the cold wall and feeling him shiver against him when Even kisses him fiercely. Even traces his hands around Isak’s collarbones. Let’s his palms smooth over the levels of his chest. Touches the tight muscles of Isak’s middle and digs his fingernails into the meaty skin on the back of Isak’s hips.

He ignores all the notes he’s ever taken about being with Isak—about being with a boy—and instead listens and feels. To Isak’s little breaths when he scratches his skin. To his involuntary thrusts forward when Isak’s hands wander low to take Even’s pants off enough to shove them down to his upper thighs. Even lets himself get lost. He lets himself enjoy all the confusing things he doesn’t understand about Isak’s body. He lets himself ignore all the buzzing questions in his head about why he likes it. He lets himself _be._

Even’s hands on the back of Isak’s middle wander down—gliding over his skin against the wall until they’re digging into the flesh on the back of his thighs. And then Even hoists Isak up a little clumsily, a grunt escaping from somewhere deep in his chest as he breaks the kiss and lifts Isak into the air—pressing him into the wall. Isak’s legs latch automatically around Even’s waist, a surprised eyebrow raise when they finally look at each other in their new position.

“I didn’t know you were strong enough for this,” Isak questions with a smile, his teasing nature making his very real skepticism a little less condescending. 

“I don’t know if I am,” Even admits with a little smile, his breath already uneven and his legs starting to tremble. “But we’re already halfway there, so.”

“I’m ready when you are,” Isak whispers, his eyes drunk with either love or lust, Even can’t tell. He’s already starting to set his full weight into Even’s hands, hinting that he wants to sink a little further down.

It’s not very smooth. Even struggles to get the angle right the first time, watching Isak giggle and get impatient before finally letting out a struggled moan as _oh—there it is._

Even feels the tip of his cock push past Isak’s rim, and the weight of him is too much to go slow. He gives Isak no warning before he starts moving—every slow, long slide in and out both torture and pleasure—and Even can’t decide who for.

Even’s knees keep trembling, but for a different reason now. Pain is replaced with pleasure, and the heaviness of Isak against the wall and in his hands and in his lap more than makeup for any discomfort Even’s experiencing due to this position.

Also Isak’s face. It’s completely lost somewhere else—another dimension or another time or another universe. Wherever Isak is, it isn’t here, and Even can only tell because it’s written all over his hooded eyes and parted lips and tiny smile. It’s a sight to behold all on its own when Isak’s around him. A glorious sound that Even controls when he decides to pick up the pace lost in lust or slow down when he remembers how much he loves to hear Isak beg for it. A thought to be provoked at a later time, because _who the fuck_ would be able to think right now if they were in Even’s shoes.

Isak kisses him and Even closes his eyes. His mouth is open and he misses Even’s lips completely on the first try, but it’s so filled with need that Even stops for a second. Forgets what he’s even _doing_ because _Isak is kissing him_ when he’s feeling like this. Kissing him when all of his nerve endings are on fire and all of his cells are swollen and everything feels so, _so_ good. Kissing Even while he’s buried deep inside Isak and it’s the first time, Even realizes. And it’s in every fantasy Even has about Isak.

Even can feel the winds of the hurricane.

“Don’t stop,” Isak whispers over their lips.

Even can feel Isak’s turn up with a triumphant smile when he grounds himself and gives into Isak’s request.

Even’s not quite sure what happens next. One minute things are hot—burning skin and warm breaths and hands slippery with sweat. And then it ices over, like a reverse fever. Even’s nerves tense up and his cells shrink and every neuron in his brain is yelling _Abort! Abort! Abort!_ And he might just think it’s because _holy shit_ —he is balls deep in a dude with his tongue down his throat three seconds away from coming in him. But it’s not that. He feels like this, he realizes, because of what Isak is doing.

Isak snaps his neck to the side, unlocks his legs from Even, and hops off of him ungracefully and painfully. 

Even winces.

“Get into the stall,” Isak hisses, pushing Even towards it and sweeping his clothes off the ground in a hurry. 

Even doesn’t understand.

 _“Get into the stall,”_ Isak insists again, this time with wide eyes and an undertone of unease when Even stays fixed to the spot, his heart racing as the air builds with fear and anxiety.

He hears the footsteps and the voices and sees the beam of flashlights around the corner, and suddenly, he knows why.

“Please,” Isak begs, mouthing the words as he struggles to put his pants back on.

Even slips into the closest stall, locking it with fumbly fingers and sitting on the toilet. He lifts his long legs and bends them to rest his feet on the seat—his arms wrapped around his knees as he holds his breath.

Even waits and waits and waits to hear Isak slip into the stall next to his, but soon realizes that this one second of waiting, which feels like an eternity, really is only one second. Even hears Isak zip his pants right as the first step echoes in the Kjærlighetskarusell. 

There’s a groan from an unfamiliar voice. Rough. Low. Miffed. Male. Even can practically sense the eyeroll. “It’s just Valtersen,” the voice reverberates around the public bathroom, half annoyed and half amused, maybe even a little bit relieved as he seems to call over his shoulder. “Again,” he finishes flatly. Even doesn’t like hearing it in here. In this space he pretends to believe is just for him and Isak.

Even hears the flip of a notepad, and a _tsk_ from another voice.

There’s a pause, and Even tries to listen for Isak. Tries to distinguish the rustling of footsteps and breaths to pick his out, but it’s impossible.

“Oh,” the second voice drops a little lower, almost disappointed. “This is his seventh citation,” he states, probably to the other officer.

Even doesn’t know what that means. His forehead is resting on his knees and his hands have made their way to his scalp, pulling his hair as hard as he can without ripping it out. He turns his head to the side and stares at the orange metal of the stalls, everything confusing. His dick is still half hard and there are tears in his throat and his scalp feels wet now. He untangles his hands and there’s blood on the pads of his fingers.

Half of him berates himself for being a coward, for not ignoring Isak and stepping out of the stall to save him. The other half can’t move. Two conflicting sensations are not uncommon for Even, but it’s rare he feels both at once.

“Can’t you just write me another ticket?” Even finally hears Isak’s voice, and although it’s shaky and pleading, it’s like music to his ears.

“No,” the second voice snaps, paper rustling and the scratching of a pen. “You’re going to have to spend the night at the station, and they will process you in the morning.”

Even’s stomach is so uncomfortable, so filled with anxious acid, he smashes his eyes shut and prays it doesn’t make a sound. When he swallows, he does so as discreetly as he can. It pushes the tears from his throat to his eyes, forcing them open to let them through. The only thing keeping him quiet—from not gasping for air and trembling violently—is pure adrenaline.

Even hears something rustle and click. “So where is he,” the first officer deadpans. 

“It’s just me,” Isak blurts, almost a little too fast, like he’s had the excuse locked and loaded from the beginning. “He already left. I, uh… didn’t finish. So I stayed behind to get off.”

Even turns his face back to his knees and clenches his jaw. He’s worried about cracking his teeth he’s biting down so hard, so he focuses instead on sucking his cheeks in-between his molars until he tastes blood. It’s oddly relieving, but does nothing to mask the fear, panic, and misery he’s currently drowning in—cloaked in a thin blanket of cowardice as he continues to sit on this fucking toilet and do nothing.

Time stands still as he feels the officer's eyes burn holes through the stall doors, and surely Even must have made a sound by now. His heart or his stomach or his breathing—they must know he’s in here. Whether it’s out of pity or ignorance, they leave him be, and Even hears three pairs of footsteps leave the Kjærlighetskarusell with disappointing echoes as they take Isak away.

Isak.

Who moments ago was open and willing and sliding over sex words in Even’s hands. Who was all long lines and squeezing muscles that wriggled and relaxed under Even’s touch. Who was kissing Even in the Kjærlighetskarusell, which seems like a more fitting word than ever as Even squeezes his eyes shut and sees Isak’s face flash over the back of his eyelids—painted with love in little red blotches and tiny blue veins over his cheeks and chest.

Who now maybe has tethered wrists behind his back and a ducked head in the back of a squad car. Who now has to spend the night at the police station all in the name of love. Who now has tears streaming down his—

(Even doesn’t want to think about it.)

Who has taken other men here before.

And the weight of that dawns on Even.

Seven other men, to be exact (or maybe one man seven times, Even doesn’t know which is worse), and that’s only counting the number of times he’s been caught, because god knows this is only the first time with Even.

Fear and jealousy are not a good combination, and Even is going to go ahead and safely assume that that’s the case for everybody—not just him.

He’s simultaneously worried for and cursing at Isak. Hoping that he is okay while wishing he could remove the memory of him from his skin, because now all Even sees when he closes his eyes is everyone else.

Even lets out the breath he'd been holding, and out with it comes the tsunami of sound—an ugly cry broken apart with shuddering shoulders and breaths he doesn’t know if he can catch in time before everything just keeps pouring out and out and out again. The tears and snot and _sounds_ from somewhere both low in his belly and high in his throat. Magnified by the cement walls that do nothing but greenhouse his feelings.

It might be ten minutes. It might be ten hours. Time is an illusion in the Kjærlighetskarusell, where everything is always fast and rushed. But Even spends those ten minutes or ten hours as deafeningly and as violently as he can with his face in his knees and his hands in his hair as he curses Isak. The world. Love in general. He curses it loudly, because he knows that when he leaves, he is not allowed to tell anyone about his broken heart.

And that might be the most agonizing part of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


	6. defining

Isak’s only in the holding cell for two days. The punishment isn’t long, but that’s not the important part.

The important part is the arrest. Which is now on his record. Which is public knowledge.

Yesterday, it took everything inside Even to stay violently quiet and convincingly worried while Jonas panicked. _Isak didn’t come home last night. I haven’t seen Isak for two days. Have you seen Isak?_

Today, Jonas is stone cold—leaning against the counter of Grooves as he taps a pen against the glass top so hard Even thinks he might break it. His bushy eyebrow twitches. He stares at nothing in particular. A newspaper sloppily folded back together rests over the cash register. 

“Isak came home last night,” Jonas deadpans. It’s the first thing he’s said since Even’s walked through the beaded curtain from the back entrance after punching in.

Even tries to look surprised. Or relieved. Or however he thinks he should look. It must not play well, because Jonas scoffs.

“But he wouldn’t tell me where he was,” Jonas trails, this time turning his head to look at Even. Pen still tapping against the glass of the counter.

He can’t meet his gaze.

“But, uh,” Jonas scrunches his nose. “I read the paper this morning.” His face falls. If Even thought he looked angry, he might want to reconsider. Worry undermines his face. His thick eyebrows scrunch together, but his eyes are still wide and his lips turn softly down. “The arrests.”

Even swallows. He knows he should ask. _For what?_ To shake off any doubt that he already knows. But he can’t bring himself to do so. He can only stare—pointendly, almost like it’s his job—at his shoes.

“You were with him that night.” Jonas’s voice sounds like a realization. There’s no question in it. “Yeah,” he starts to grasp on, his head nodding but his eyes still knit together in confusion. “He left. And then you left.”

Even’s head snaps up. He glances first around the record store. A few stray customers, but no one is paying them any attention. When he looks at Jonas, it’s like a deer caught in the headlights.

A tolerance passes between them. A silent understanding. Even’s refusal of dismissing it only confirms it. And they look at each other for a long time—Jonas unmoving. Maybe there’s something behind his eyes, but Even can’t tell. If anything, he feels like he’s being studied.

“I think he would like to see you,” Jonas nods softly. “He wasn’t doing very well this morning.”

Even purses his lips and nods. He musters a soft _yeah,_ but it comes out broken. It might even be the first word he’s said all day.

“I’ll close tonight,” Jonas states, turning around and throwing the newspaper on the cash register into the recycling bin. “Go,” he pushes after a moment when Even doesn’t get the hint. He takes a set of keys from his pocket and throws them at Even, who catches them clumsily before they hit the ground. “He might have the door locked,” Jonas adds as an afterthought. “I don’t know if he’ll get out of bed. But I really think he would like to see you.”

 

Nodding, Even doesn’t know if he can return the sentiment.

 

———

 

Even knocks on the door to the apartment first. Waits a minute. No answer. He knocks again—keys in his hand. He almost wonders if it’s a sign—might as well turn around now and leave it all be. Yet maybe it’s a sign Jonas threw him the keys.

And then Even remembers he doesn’t believe in signs. That if he wants to see Isak, he has the means to do so.

But that’s the problem. That’s why he’s standing in the hallway outside of the door. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

He slides the key into the lock and turns. When he opens the door, a waft of smoke chokes him—the thick smell of marijuana. Isak’s asleep on the couch in his underwear.

And yet, it’s hard not to believe in signs when it seems like the universe is giving Even so many chances to back away.

Hesitantly, Even sits on the coffee table in front of the couch facing Isak. He just watches for a moment—love and anger spiraling him into a rabbit hole. Maybe he wants to hear what Isak has to say—if he has anything to say at all. Even doesn’t know if he can handle what might possibly be the truth, though. That this whole thing has been one-sided all along.

Even watches Isak’s parted lips twitch ever so slightly in time with his chest rising and falling in deep breaths. Watches his eyes flutter behind their lids in a deep sleep. Even remembers naming him _Angel Boy_ in his head when he first saw him, and how true that still rings. A halo of messy golden curls framing his face. For some reason, he wants to wake him up and tell him that.

Even trails his thumb over Isak’s forehead. Down his cheek. Despite the uncertainty, he feels fondness tight in his chest. He hates how willing he is, even now, with not a single word spoken since their last encounter—with a million thoughts and scenarios poisoning his mind—to forgive him. Even if he isn’t sorry.

Isak stirs. When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t jolt—almost as if he expected Even to wake him. Or maybe it’s just the weed; red veins line the whites of his eyes. He sits up, rubbing them.

Their knees knock against each other. The touch is grounding.

“So,” Even starts, “how was prison life?” The confidence surprises even himself. But it’s _Isak_ sitting here, and it’s so hard to be angry. Or scared. Especially when the overwhelming relief that he’s _okay_ pulses through his veins. Isak’s the only thing that’s been tethering him to the ground—how is he supposed to let jealousy and anger and self-doubt make him let go?

Isak snorts a laugh, and the sound curls Even’s insides into a warm bow.

“Mean guards?” Even presses sarcastically with a contagious smile. “Terrible food?”

“Oh,” Isak plays along with an eye roll, each word long and drawn out. “The. Worst.”

They share a chuckle, knocking their knees together again.

“No,” Isak sniffs, rubbing his nose as a nervous reflex. “I didn’t even eat anything. I couldn’t.”

Even’s insides sink.

“God,” Isak breathes, as if waking up is bringing everything flooding back. As if this—real life—is the nightmare. He shoves the balls of his hands into his eyes and rests his elbows on his knees. Blonde curls flop down, and if Even didn’t know any better, he’d guess Isak was suppressing tears. “That whole thing fucking sucked,” he recovers, head tilting back up to rest his chin in his hands.

“Jonas knows,” Even treads. “About… us…”

Isak sits up straighter. “Fuck,” he sighs, leaning back now against the cushions of the couch and dragging his hands down his face—pulling at his cheeks. “How do I even look him in the eye after this?” He asks more to the ceiling than to Even. “I don’t even know how I’m able to look you in the eye, to be honest. Even—” Isak stops. Like maybe there’s a lump in his throat. “I just want you to know there was never anyone else this whole time. Before, sure. And I know you heard everything in the stall. And I just want you to know there wasn’t anyone else. And I’m sorry—”

Even feels light. All too ready to put this in the past. A smile tugging at his lips.

“But I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

It falls.

 

———

 

_I don’t think we should do this anymore._

The memory rings in Even’s ears as his lips slide against Isak’s. As their tongues dance softly and they drag their hands over each other—pulling, always pulling, as if getting closer is impossible at this point.

It’s unnerving to miss someone when they are right here. But it’s as if Isak might be ripped from his fingertips at any second, and by none other than Isak himself. 

Even hasn’t asked. Doesn’t want to. But Isak backed him up in the backroom of the record store two days ago when Jonas went to the bathroom and kissed him. And of course Even was powerless to stop him—and of course he didn’t want to stop him, anyway.

And they’ve found themselves back at the Kjærlighetskarusell, only now there are so many questions. And their kisses are tainted by them, no matter how bittersweet. They’re almost filled with anxiety because Even doesn’t know how much longer he can take the unpredictability.

He’s felt himself get tired the last few days. His brain sinking into self-deprecating thoughts. Even now, kissing Isak—he just enjoys it for what it is. He’s not hard or even horny. With every passing second, he’s barely here at all.

“Are you okay?” Isak breaks away after pressing his hips to Even’s to find nothing.

“Yes,” Even breathes, the heaviness of his head sinking to Isak’s shoulder when they part—the weight of it on its own just too much. “I’m just tired. Please don’t stop kissing me.”

Isak listens. He kisses Even again, but this time cradling his face in his hands. It’s slower. Gentle. A kiss unlike one they may have shared before. It’s a kiss lovers do, Even realizes. Lovers in the emotional sense of the word. He holds on to it.

There’s a bubble in his chest. And then tightness in his throat. Stinging in his eyes. Even is crying while Isak kisses him, and he tries to hide it but can’t.

Isak breaks away, taken aback, but doesn’t let go of Even’s face.

The tears spill through Even’s eyes pressed shut. His lip trembles. And his chin. He doesn’t dare inhale—it’ll only make it worse. He feels Isak’s thumb wipe away at the wetness falling down the crevice of his nose.

“I can’t,” Even manages, gesturing to their lower halves. “Not tonight. I just can’t.”

Confused, Isak pulls him in for a hug. Even feels two arms around his middle, and it almost makes it worse.

“But please don’t go,” Even begs. He can only imagine how small he looks crumpled into Isak.

Maybe even smaller than he feels. 

 

———

 

Highs and lows and highs and lows. That’s all Even feels day after day.

Today he feels high—high on Isak. Confident, even.

Isak is opening Even up and Even is in the eye of the hurricane. Can see and feel it churning around him but now with enough clarity to let him speak. But of course, only the words that it will let him.

Isak’s fingers slip in him. Drag down. And Even looks him in the eye for as long as he can before he knows he’ll have to turn around. Kisses him as he absorbs Isak’s touch.

“I love you,” Even whispers over Isak’s lips—his hands smoothing Isak’s cheeks back as he continues the kiss, hoping maybe the coupling of admission and physical affection will convey at least half as much feeling.

And he didn’t plan on saying it. He hadn’t even thought much about it before—felt it, sure, but those words have never cultivated in his mind, let alone slipped past his lips. He’s only vaguely aware that he’s said them, and unlike intangible smoke—like something he wishes he could grab to shove the words back into his mouth but can’t—he feels lighter. Solidified. Like it’s the last step to self-discovery, whatever that even means.

He’s not hoping for Isak to say it back, but he’s at least expecting to feel Isak melt under him. For the kiss to be hungrier and for hands to be greedier and to just feel this confession all around them until it’s back inside them and they’re expressing it the only way two humans seem to know how.

But instead, Even feels Isak freeze. His lips slack and stop moving. His jaw tightens. His breath stops. He pulls away—and suddenly the eye of the hurricane passes over again and pulverizes Even’s body with harsh rain and wind.

And Even forgets that sometimes love is painful. _This_ love is painful. And not in the familiar way—the forbidden way. Where Even can’t love Isak the way he wants to yet loves him anyway in secret. No, this is hurting in the unreciprocated way. Where it doesn’t matter how hard Even loves, in secret or not, because what’s the point if Isak doesn’t love him back?

“You what?” Isak breaths, half surprised and half annoyed and he gently pushes Even back, hands lingering on his chest.

Even doesn’t know if he can say it again. Physically doesn’t know if he can. “I… love you?” He manages, all in one breath with an inflection at the end, suddenly unsure. Of absolutely everything.

Isak blinks once—hard. And when he opens his eyes again after a beat too long, they’re wet. “You love me?” He repeats, swallowing a lump in his throat and peeling away from Even. “You _love_ me?” His voice is cross and offended.

“I—” Even starts, words too big for his mouth. Like every letter is heavy on his tongue and he wants nothing more than to disperse of them while they slide back down his throat. “Is that okay?” His hands are shaking.

Isak cocks his head, and Even can see the indignance fade for just a second. He hates how it softens him. “You know that’s not okay,” Isak whispers harshly. “We…” he trails, scrunching his nose and looking at the floor before green eyes turn back up to Even, who didn’t know green could ever be fiery. “We don’t get to love,” Isak explains, every word louder than the last. His rage a crescendo. 

Even can’t tell if it’s directed at him or at the world.

 _“You_ don’t get to love _me,”_ Isak pokes his finger in his chest, closing the distance between them again, but this time in a threatening way. 

Even doesn’t understand the inflection of the sentence. _You_ don’t get to love _me._ What does that mean?

“What do you want to do?” Isak splays his arms out in question, looking from wall to wall with tears in his eyes before turning back on Even. “Fuck me in this bathroom for the rest of our lives? You _love_ me,” Isak repeats with a laugh as he shakes his head—the kind of laughter that only comes with a breakdown—when the body is too exhausted either mentally or physically to comprehend the right emotions.

“We get to love—” Even argues, his voice shaky with balled fists at his sides.

 _“You_ get to love,” Isak corrects him, “but _you_ don’t get to love _me._ Of all the people you could love—why do you want to make this so hard? Why do you even want to have this conversation?”

“Are you afraid?” Even challenges, desperately clinging to any sense of backpedaling he can muster, but he knows it’s a lost cause. Isak is slipping through the fingers he can still feel him on.

Isak blinks. Confused and frustrated.

“To love?” Even clarifies. “To love someone who can actually love you back? Don’t even pretend you never loved Jo—” Even starts when he sees Isak rolls his eyes, but then stops when he sees him wince at the mention of Jonas’s name.

“You don’t understand,” Isak spits. Belittling Even. “And you won’t,” he continues. “Because you don’t have to do this. You can make this all so easy on yourself. The easiest thing I can ever do is love from a distance, pretend it doesn’t tear me apart, and fuck random guys in a bathroom.”

 _Random guys._ Even flinches. Closes his eyes and take a deep breath. “Random guys?” He repeats. “Is that what I am to you? Just a random guy? A vessel to get off on while you pity yourself and pretend I’m someone you’ll never have?” He’s surprised at how calm and soft his voice sounds. At the harsh words he’s using against someone who, just a moment ago, he told he loved.

He’s surprised, too, at how calm and soft the tears in Isak’s eyes are. If Even closed his own and just listened to him, he might not know Isak was crying at all. “You’ll never under—”

“But I’m right here, Isak,” Even cuts him off. “You can have me if you want.”

Something flashes in Isak’s eyes. Even thinks it looks like curiosity speckled with desire.

“I don’t know what I want,” Isak hesitates, and Even knows he is only holding on to him by the last thread.

“Is that one of the things you do know?” Even whispers, using Isak’s own words from the very first time they met in the Kjærlighetskarusell against him.

Isak sneers, and Even feels the thread snap lightly and all of the weight that Isak was holding double back on him. Even is no longer lighter. No longer solid. All sense of self-discovery has vanished. He is heavy and malleable and lost.

“I don’t know anything,” Isak bites the inside of his cheek, the admission more to himself than to anyone else. 

Even expects him to linger a moment—to turn back to him and at least meet his gaze. But Isak doesn’t. He nods his head. Turns on his heel. Then he’s gone.

And so is Even.

 

———

 

Four days in bed. 

 

———

 

Even drags his pen lazily over the last page of his sketchbook. The tip of a pointy nose. A stray curl. Two teeth that don’t touch.

Absentmindedly, he doesn’t realize he’s drawing Isak until the features come together and there he is, staring up at Even from the page.

He mostly feels anger, now. And a little stupid. A lot confused. That’s when he can feel, that is. When he thinks of Isak, he sees him leaving. Once, unwelcomed and unannounced. Twice, as a surprise. Three times—and Even still doesn’t know what happened. What went wrong.

Even rips that last page out, crumples it, and throws it away—then, guiltily, picks it back out of the trash, straightens it out, and tucks it into the binding of the green back cover of his sketchbook.

He’s blasting Led Zeppelin way too loud for ambient shopping in the record store, but no one’s going to come in so he doesn’t care. He just has to be here. Exist. 

With nothing left to draw on, Even twirls the bouncy ball in the pocket of his jean jacket to keep his hand busy. Stares out the window and off into space as his mind clings to thoughts before they peel away, unable to cultivate there.

He sits on the counter—back to the front of the store—too tired to keep standing, and puts his head in his hands. It’s the first time he’s been back to work in a week, and the weight of just being here sits heavy on him. Sitting in the spot he agreed to meet at the Kjærlighetskarusell for the second time, he thinks of Isak. Looking down at the spot he first touched him fully, he thinks of Isak.

Everything makes him think of Isak.

_Maybe if he just didn’t say it._

That’s the thought bothering Even. There seems to be a missing piece, maybe something he’s just overlooked. The signs were there. Even felt no qualms about saying it. About feeling it, even. Which is the biggest barrier, he thinks—it’s as if a mountain lies between him and Isak, but neither of them has the stamina or gear to climb over it.

But it’s over. Isak’s made that very clear.

And for real this time—the flames of hope that licked up his belly a few days ago are gone.

Even hears the chime of the front door barely over the music blasting but doesn’t turn around. And then the scratch of the record as it’s lifted from the player after someone rounds the corner of the counter behind the register. And then quiet.

It’s Isak. Even doesn’t have to lift his head to know it. He can just feel it. A flicker of hope burns his insides.

Lifting his head, Even sees Isak leaning against the wood paneled wall next to the beaded curtain that separates the front of the store from the back room. He’s twirling the record he took off the player with two fingers, staring down at it.

“Have you ever been scared?” Isak whispers. Even can barely hear it as his ears adjust to the low tones.

Taken aback, Even struggles for words. Struggles to comprehend Isak in front of him, and to discern what any of this meant to him. If he sees Even with him, next to him, in him—whenever green meets blue, like Even does—or if he sees nothing.

“Yeah, of course,” Even recognizes with eyebrows pulled downward. His heart is flying and he has no idea why. Feet tapping violently against the stone floor.

Isak takes a step closer. “I was really scared,” he admits, looking at his hands kept busy with the spinning record, “when the police found us in the Kjærlighetskarusell.”

Even nods. The memory is shit but the fact that Isak _remembers_ makes him feel like maybe this whole thing hasn’t been a dream. A nightmare.

That, even in a nightmare, Isak was his. And he was Isak’s. And no one can take that away from Even—no one can tell him what he felt wasn’t real. Viscerally, tangibly _real._ And no one can take away the calmness he feels having been able to figure it out with Isak.

Isak. Who is the only other person he can talk to about this. Who, with the simple act of remembering, let’s Even wake up from this nightmare.

“I didn’t think I had ever been so scared in my life,” Isak confesses, step by step getting closer to Even still sitting on the counter.

“Me neither,” Even gulps, fingers curling over the edge of the counter until his knuckles are white—until Isak is right in front of him, smiling at the record in his hands, as if fondly judging Even’s music taste, before setting it down beside him and finally, _finally_ looking into Even’s eyes.

“Do you know what that means?” Isak asks him, resting his hands on Even’s knees. The contact makes him tense before melting at the comfort of it. “It means you’re braver than I am,” Isak states.

Even shakes his head, but Isak steadies it with a light hand on his jaw.

Powerless. Even feels powerless. He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad—if Isak bending him this way, into paralyzed oblivion, is something he wants or not.

He tells himself he doesn’t pull away because he doesn’t want to—because if there’s a thought he hates, it’s not having control.

A deep breath in—Even remembers Isak would never mold him like clay. Would only ever paint him—brilliant colors that were in him all along.

“It does,” Isak defends, the assuredness in his voice too powerful to make Even doubt. “Because it means you’re not afraid of me.”

“Why would I be afraid of you?” Even asks. He feels his whole body trembling—like it’s cold—despite the sun streaming through the windows. Isak trails his hand down off Even’s jaw to rest on his shoulder.

Isak looks up like he’s thinking. “I don’t know,” he decides, looking back down at Even again and _god,_ will that look ever stop knocking Even out of breath? “I keep asking myself why I’m afraid of _you.”_ He taps a finger against Even’s knee.

“I’m not threatening,” Even deadpans.

“No,” Isak smiles, hand traveling back up Even’s neck to tuck a loose wave behind his ear. “You’re not.”

Even lets him, but it makes it hard—like he’s falling back asleep. Back into a nightmare where Isak is ripped from him again and again. He closes his eyes at the sensation.

“But I was wrong,” Isak continues, his face falling. “That night—getting caught. Arrested. Everyone finding out who—what—I am,” he chokes. Even feels Isak’s fingers tremble behind his ear. “It means nothing.”

“What are you trying to say?” Even dares to ask—the realization that _it_ could mean _he_ sitting heavy between every word.

Struggling to start, Isak finds what he wants to say. “Because—” there’s a smile tugging up at his lips. “I was wrong. When you told me you loved me…” he exhales short, and it catches in his throat. “I was scared shitless. Fear and, just—” he waves around vaguely. Nervous, even. “The way you made me feel. And then the way you called me out on it. And just now—because I needed to see you. God, I can’t stop thinking about you and what a fucking _asshole_ I am—”

“You’re not an asshole,” Even stops him. “I think you’re lovely—you’re—”

“Even,” Isak stops him with a small laugh, cocking his head to the side. “I was an asshole.”

Even smiles. Has to—it’s contagious. And suddenly he feels _light._ Smiling at each other like this. Close. Like lovers.

“So you don’t know what you want. You don’t know if you’re afraid of me,” Even asks, hopefulness like fire in him. Too wild to put out. Green eyes wide down at him with something similar. “Do you know anything?” he jokes.

Biting his bottom lip to keep the smile from growing wide, Isak looks up before looking back down. “Maybe,” he nods. “Maybe two things. Do you want to know what I know?”

Heart flying, Even nods.

“I know that right now, right here, this,” he grips Even’s knees. “I’ve never been so scared in my entire life.”

In the midst of it—because they’re so much closer now—Even’s hands rest on Isak’s hips standing in front of him. “Yeah?” he breathes, more of a sound than a word. He’s transported back to the Kjærlighetskarusell, confessing the things he knows to Isak. This time the listener.

“And it’s because of the second thing I know,” Isak smiles. 

“Tell me what you know,” Even pulls him close, hope burning him alive.

Smiling, Isak says it over a kiss. “I know that I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your thoughts are always appreciated <3 I'd love to know if you loved it. Thank you to everyone who expressed interest in some of this from Isak's POV. You'll find that in the next chapter.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hi!


	7. Isak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter explores most of the fic from Isak's point of view. Thanks to everyone who expressed interest in reading more of this ❤️

**i. drowning**

Jonas said he’s _a handsome dude,_ among other things. Funny, although quiet. When he does speak, people want to listen. His style is sort of flashy. His taste either a little bizarre or a lot pretentious. But, all of those things added together make him just smart, brazen, aloof, and fitting enough to hire for a place like Grooves.

His name is Even, and Isak just rolls his eyes every time Jonas talks about him. It’s that _handsome dude_ comment, though, that tightens Isak’s stomach into a knot with both spite and interest.

•

Isak’s upstairs, talking to Mahdi, when he notices Jonas’s absence in the sea of people around him. Isak hates that his attention always turns towards him, but no matter what he tells himself— _it will never happen. This is hopeless. You’re going to do something stupid_ —his heart and his brain will not communicate. The several beers he’s downed don’t help, and despite the embarrassment he feels following Jonas like a lost puppy, he excuses himself from Mahdi, the kitchen, the conversation—to go look for him.

Bouncing down the stairs, he sees him sitting comfortably in the bean bag chair, exhaling a cloud of thick smoke that Isak can see his body melt with. Jonas is handsy when he’s high, or at least a little more comfortable with his touch. Isak hates that he knows that. Hates that he’s noticed that.

Hates how, when a stranger is in him, Isak sometimes thinks of Jonas’s touch.

•

His entrance into the circle, once he’s found Jonas in the basement, is welcomed with a few things. One, Jonas’s elbow in his side that hurts in a good way. Two, a sandy-haired boy’s eyes on him with peaked, fiery curiosity. 

And three, his insides melting with the first drag of the joint he skillfully plucked from said boy’s lips.

Isak knew it was Even the moment he turned around. Jonas was not wrong. Even is, without a doubt, _a handsome dude._ Isak doesn’t make that observation subtle in his own.

It takes a moment for his surroundings to dawn on him—takes a moment for the pressure of Jonas sitting so closely next to him to dull so he can take it in.

Even is a little shaky. A little shy. Isak wonders what his story is, but as the night progresses—as the joint dwindles and they spark a new one—Isak watches his body lax. Listens to his deep voice. Likes the sound of it. 

To be frank, they are eye-fucking each other. Like crazy. 

It’s nice to feel Jonas’s body numbing against his own. Their limbs touching. Their sides. Yet Isak’s only distantly aware, and his body is on fire for another reason altogether. It’s nice to forget. 

He studies Even’s long legs. The dip of his neck that meets his collarbone through the v-neck collar of his shirt. His _face,_ which might as well have been carved from marble—and all of the details that make it beautiful. Plush lips and blue eyes and smooth skin.

Isak leans his body out. Long and plaint against the beanbag chair. Open. He watches Even watch him—watches Even shift his hips and crunch over himself to hide what Isak can only guess is his hard-on.

They make eye-contact. Even looks curious and scared, and Isak meets his gaze with something smooth and fiery. 

They want each other. There’s no doubt.

•

His bravery is a blur.

Following Even upstairs. The note.

But Even met him here, at the Kjærlighetskarusell, which only confirms Isak’s suspicions.

But his presumptions make him kick himself in the head. Too strong—he came on too strong. He presses into Even’s body and feels nothing. When Isak realizes Even has never even _kissed_ a boy, his mind flashes back to all of the times he so desperately wished his first kiss was something more than just a prelude to sex.

Slowing, because if he can at least make this right for someone else—especially someone who seems as clueless as Even—he backs off. But Isak doesn’t make his desires unknown. They talk. And then flirt. And then Even kisses him again in a way Isak is unaccustomed to.

Slow, soft tongues. Little movements—their hips. Even’s body language morphs into _take me_ and Isak has no problem doing just that. Has no problem letting his mouth and hands wander on the most attractive person he has definitely ever been this close with. His head _swims._ He actually feels turned on, fully, just from this alone. Maybe because Even is closer to his age. Maybe because Even is so uninhibited right now. Maybe because Isak has never taken anything this slow before—this kiss something he fundamentally enjoys and revels in.

Even’s gasps. The way he tugs at Isak—like he actually enjoys his presence. It’s a new sensation. 

A secret: Isak’s a selfish lover. But who isn’t in the Kjærlighetskarusell? This is where men with wives come. Where men too young to live on their own come. This is where men come to come, and that’s it. No one touches each other in here the way Isak is touching Even—the way Even holds on to him.

No one falls in love here.

Isak’s extra cautious to make sure this is what Even wants, and maybe he should have refrained himself, but the weight of Even’s dick in his mouth feels delicious. He saves every sound in his mind for later.

Isak goes home and gets off to the taste of Even’s come still stuck in his mouth.

 

 

**ii. deciding**

It’s not unusual for Isak to follow Jonas to the record store. He knows the ins and out. How to sleeve the used records or damage out copies or ring people up. Jonas gives him money under the table when he needs help, but Isak’s erratic schedule makes him too unpredictable to hire full time.

Too many sleepless nights at the clinic beside his mom—pleading with doctors to leave her be. To not take her away and put her in what they call a “hospital.” (He knows what it really is.) Too many calls to his father that always go unanswered. She shouts to god and the heavens and Isak swallows his pride every time because one fucked up thing in his life is enough. 

(He can hide all of the others.)

It is unusual, though, for Isak to follow Jonas here in the morning.

When pestered about it, Isak just says he feels like it.

•

It takes a moment for Isak to realize something is off with Even. It takes a moment more to realize that something is probably him.

Fidgeting with the crate of records. Short answers that dance around questions. Isak’s flirty glances aren’t returned, and guilt consumes him. 

In a desperate attempt to get Jonas out of the room, Isak breaks something. Reflexively, he looks at Jonas’s ass when he bends over to clean the mess—tips of his ears going red as he realizes Even’s caught him.

It’ll take awhile to break that habit. It’ll take awhile for Jonas’s presence to be nothing more than that: a presence. 

When they’re alone—when Isak can explain the best he can the knotted up words he tries to untangle, he sees Even unwind. He sees Even smile. He sees his body writhe at the prospect of Isak’s hands on him again. 

He sees Even’s confidence for the first time, like an early green sprout out of the dirt. 

He sees it crumple, too.

•

Isak’s mouth dries at the sight of the Kjærlighetskarusell. A visceral reaction that also causes his heart to pump violently against his ribs.

Memories. Some not very fond ones.

But there’s nowhere else to go.

•

Something about Even scares the shit out of Isak. Maybe it’s his overt vulnerability—Even doesn’t see it, or even realize it, but every time he says _I don’t know,_ Isak can sense he really means it. And Even doesn’t give up on it, either. His _I don’t knows_ carry more of a _but I want to_ rather than an _and I’m not interested_ tone.

Isak looks at Even, and he sees some of the fear—the absolute gut curdling fear—that sometimes still licks its way up his insides.

He sees bravery, too, and when he learns that Even taking a direct interest in him is a conscious choice—despite his other sexual preferences—Isak admires, almost envies, Even’s bravery.

To try and mimic that bravery—to give Even and himself something nice to hold on to, something outside of the Kjærlighetskarusell—Isak kisses Even. Fast. Lips and lips and that’s it. And it’s the first one he’s ever shared with anybody outside of concrete walls.

And it makes his heart soar, which is something he’s never had the emotional and physical act of experiencing together. Dizzying is a good word for it. So light-headed that he can’t keep the smile off his face because he doesn’t even know it’s there.

The coupling of a crush with the ability to express it. It’s almost too much. Unreal.

That thought strikes Isak. Unreal. Because, according to earlier today at the record store, With Even. With Sonja. It might be.

So he asks.

Isak, if he’s being honest with himself, has never heard anyone outright admit to the fluidness of their sexuality before. Even doesn’t give it a name, but Isak has no reason to disbelieve him.

At least Even’s being honest with himself, much like how Isak decided to be only a few years ago when girls simply didn’t interest him, despite his willingness for them to.

He remembers the cold dread from head to toe the first time he ever got off to the thought of a boy. How that dread turned to ice and expanded his veins until they busted when he realized his feelings for Jonas were bordering over the line of platonic.

The men he’s slept with before—the men with wives—no, they’re straight. Will tell him that to his face. Will deny deny deny and leave Isak feeling like an anomaly. An oddity. A monster. 

So maybe this honesty is a young person thing.

Whatever it is, he feels closer to Even. This secret they’ve harbored that can finally be let free only in the comfort of one another. 

•

Isak surrenders to Even’s touch, and it feels nice to. It feels nice to give Even this, and take a little piece away for himself. It feels nice for things to move at what otherwise might be a glacial speed inside the Kjærlighetskarusell.

Where men rarely kiss each other.

He melts. He begs without meaning to. He can’t hide the sounds. The movements. The pressure of his dick pressing against his jeans. He can’t help but let Even undo him completely as he grows more and more comfortable to the touch.

And he can’t help but let it be known, either, with words he’s surprised even himself with.

Because is this what it’s like? Is this what Jonas does when he goes over to Eva’s house? Do they make out in her bed? Do they touch each other like this—longingly? Like they know they’ll get there, but they’re allowed to take their time? Make it explosive just because they can?

Isak thinks to all of the times he’s been too preoccupied with the lingering fear in the back of his mind that always makes sure he can never enjoy anything fully.

And then Even touches him. Just drags one finger up the length of his dick—which he thinks has never been this painfully hard—and he stops thinking as he almost falls apart completely.

And then Even reaches into his boxers. And then Even’s mouth is on him.

(It’s not even mind-blowingly good. Isak’s just so overwhelmed with the build-up—with the scary intensity that they might not just be using each other as vessels. That they might just enjoy each other.)

And then he’s coming for the first time actually thinking of the man touching him.

 

 

**iii. deterring**

Isak spends his days with Jonas and his nights with Even.

One dissolves into the other. He’d be lying if he denied that some of his thoughts—some of his feelings—blurred.

When Jonas makes him breakfast in the apartment. Does he wish it’s Even?

When Even—sweet Even—kisses his neck in the Kjærlighetskarusell. Does he think of Jonas?

A shift of feelings—from longing to belonging—and Isak feels himself fall out of love. And, despite how negative that sounds, he’s relieved. It’s still hard, though—to look at Jonas. To see something and not be able to do anything about it. To remember all of the times Jonas was there for Isak—to go back to every tear in his shoulder and every late night whisper and try to tell himself that he’s not crazy. That _anybody_ would have fallen for that.

And yet his stomach still does a backflip when he hears Eva moaning in Jonas’s room. The soft breaths of his best friend as they’re allowed to be. Just a thin wall between them.

Tears—sad ones. As Isak lays in bed and feels guilty about listening. As he feels sorry for himself about a love that never was—never _is_ —allowed to be.

More tears—angry ones. As he snarls up at his ceiling. Turns over on his side. Curses the universe for being so unfair.

Curses the universe for making him like this.

•

Isak watches Jonas procure more joints from somewhere in his mess of curls than Isak thinks is physically possible. He sets them on the counter, rolls them in some cling wrap, and tucks them behind a storage box near the beaded curtain that separates the front of the store from the back room.

 _For later,_ Isak hears him say. Because they’re having “a thing” tonight and Jonas doesn’t want any creepers finding his stash.

He tries not to look nervous when Even agrees to Jonas’s invite, but he knows he’s failed when Even catches his gaze. Sees his face fall.

Isak’s nervous of the prospect of the three of them together under one roof after this emotional rift he tells himself only he’s aware of.

But Jonas is a party animal. And Even is Even. There’s nothing Isak can do about it except remain as neutral as possible while he watches his world tilt on its axis and his real life and his hidden life collide in the earthquake of it.

•

When a healthy amount of people start to crowd their apartment, Isak slips away.

He lies on his bed. Undoes his pants and shimmies them down to his ankles. He hasn’t seen Even yet, but he knows that once he does, their fiery glances won’t be able to last too long under the loose scrutiny of drunken gazes.

Not to mention their own buzzed states.

Settings like this are dangerous. Where the only thing keeping Isak’s hands to himself—his eyes and his words and his intentions—is his own self-control.

So when the moment comes they _do_ want to sneak out, Isak wants to be ready.

The Vaseline. His fingers. He’s done this a million times but the first circle around his rim and the following push inside himself still sends a jolt of pleased electricity through his nervous system. One finger turns to two. He thinks of Even while he opens himself up. 

Of Even in his bed, opening him up.

His heart does this thing—sinks a little at the thought while his dick tells him to stop being sad.

Two fingers to three, until he thinks he can take Even. His own dick stirs at the thought—of Even inside him. He tugs at it loosely, his stomach tightening already as this simple act of getting ready for tonight has turned less into that and more into Isak touching himself to the thought of Even in his bed. 

His fingers spread. Then slip down in time as he glides his hand up his cock and feels it twitch in his hand.

He stops. Heavy breathes in and out as he wills himself to do so. To wait for tonight. To think of how pushing himself this close to the edge right now will surely make later explosive.

He wants Even to see him like that.

His self control is impeccable.

•

When they sit on the floor of the record store, under the counter and out of view, Isak doesn’t have to look at the distraught, tight lines of Even’s face. How his jaw is clenched in self-loathing.

He can just feel it.

He can just sense it—all too familiar.

So he’s got to know. So he asks. And the way Even talks about himself breaks Isak in half. He mentions Sonja. His mistakes. How no one deserves him and how he feels bad because now there’s _this_ as he gestures between them.

_This._

Isak’s heart sinks at the prospect of all the things he knows he will never get to have. Of _this_ and what it entails to Even—what he thinks _this_ should be because Even’s head the pleasure of experiencing _this_ before. Dates and kisses and being free. 

Of what _this_ might be. Marriage. Children, if they wanted. 

Happiness.

So Isak just smiles weakly at Even’s blissful, almost hopeful ignorance of what he thinks _this_ could be between them, unable to squash it. 

And he pretends, for a moment, when Even kisses him. Of what _this_ may be in another time or another place in the universe. He tries to fix it all in his kiss. Even’s hurt and his own—two very different reasons that Isak can only try to heal with optimism he’s long forgotten. 

But when he’s with Even, he feels it spark.

Things get heavy. The kiss is hungry, and Isak moves his hips on top of Even, unable to hold himself back at the friction that’s been coiled tightly inside himself since the evening began. Even asks Isak to make him forget and he can barely register the thought because in the midst of hands and legs and hips pushing forward, Isak has already forgotten. Has already lost himself in the long planes of Even. Of the sounds he makes when Isak moves on top of him.

Even wants to touch him and Isak’s eyes close when he finally does. And it’s not in his bed but it’s not in the Kjærlighetskarusell, either. He could come on the spot from just that realization alone.

Even is so pretty. So clueless but still so brave. Isak is so lucky.

Maybe that’s the thought that cursed it. 

Luck doesn’t exist for him. His whole body tenses and winces and freezes when he sees Even’s do so. When he snaps back from oblivion to hear the rustling in the back room.

Only after a moment does he realize it’s Jonas—still frightening, but Isak thinks less so. The minutes stretch wide without him being able to say something. He can feel Even’s heart flying beneath him. His hands start to sweat and shake on the back of his thighs.

When the door closes—when they’re in the clear—they can finally breathe.

And no, it’s not his bed. But it’s not the Kjærlighetskarusell, either.

It’s not the Kjærlighetskarusell.

So never again.

 

 

**iv. dancing**

His mom is usually fine enough to stay at home by herself.

But not right now. Two days ago he went over to check in on her like always—no groceries in the fridge. The cat’s litter box filled to the brim with piss all over the floor. In the same clothes he last saw her in.

Too scared to go outside—or maybe not aware enough to. So he cleans. Makes sure she takes the meds he knows does nothing but make her zombie-like at first. Stays with her while she comes to and reads the Bible to him. 

It’s less scary, now, when she’s like this. Isak’s picked up the pieces one too many times—first out of guilt. Then out of pity. And now out of something akin to unconditional love. At least he thinks so.

Isak notices Oslo get empty. Remembers when he was a child and they would go north to the country outside of Trondheim in the summer where the sun never set in the heat with his father, who taught him how to fish. How he, as a child, would run up to his mother with his catch and she’d show him how to cook it for dinner.

How they were a family.

But he knows that’s hopeless, now. He’ll just hold on to the memories. He’ll just stay in Oslo.

•

After three long days, when things calm down, when his brain can focus on something other than everything but himself, Isak feels his insides heave with longing.

He misses Even.

The realization dawns on him, and he wills the happiness creeping slowly and unforeseen like ivy on brick to stop before it engulfs him completely.

A crush he can do something about, at least to some extent. It scares the shit out of him—how badly he _wants_ to do something about it. How badly the things he wants to do—that he doesn’t know if he’ll have enough self-control to stop himself from—can halfway be accomplished if he’s careful enough.

How badly he just wants to see Even.

So he calls him, and his voice— _god_ his voice, it makes Isak melt at the eagerness radiating both ways through the phone.

•

A shower. A razor over his face and a toothbrush shoved in his mouth while he gets dressed. He’s in the apartment for maybe a total of ten cumulative minutes before grabbing his keys on the counter and heading back out to meet Even. His skin tingling with excitement.

On his way out, Jonas stops him. Asks him how his mom is and if everything is okay. Asks him why, now that he’s finally had a moment to breathe, he’s back out the door.

Isak appreciates it. He does. But right now he’s fumbling, his brain is too tired—too focused on seeing Even—to form sentences.

 _Is there someone I don’t know about?_ Jonas asks him with a quirk of his eyebrow. _A girl, maybe?_

 _Something like that._ Isak says it with a lump in his throat.

•

When they’re in proximity again, Isak memorizes every bump of their elbows as they wander through Oslo’s near empty streets. Finds excuses to touch Even around every corner—wipes the ice cream off the side of his cheek and shoves him in the shoulder after all of his terrible jokes that border on flirtatious. Makes those touches more intimate in the slightest of ways when they’re finally laying side by side in the grass, a smile wide across his face as he closes his eyes and lets the sunshine try to find it.

Isak savors it all for what it is. Enjoys every touch and every sound as they happen—not missing them when they’re gone or looking forward to more. Now is enough. Now is enough. Now is enough.

That’s what Isak tells himself, with the sun strewn across their skin and their voices low and playful and the urge to kiss each other a congenital need made reality as they sprint into the Kjærlighetskarusell to do so.

It’s never been like this. Isak’s never felt like this—each day compounding on one another until he knows he’ll be too far gone.

(Part of him already knows he is.)

It could all be gone tomorrow.

•

Isak bends to every whim of Even’s hands. Has never remembered anything in his entire life feeling _so good._ Has never felt so taken care of or so in tune. So wanted. Their mouths slide open into smiling kisses and Even grabs at him like there’s not enough of him to grab. Isak tries to offer every cell of his body, only to be offered every cell of Even’s in return.

This kiss isn’t a prelude to sex, but it could be. The concept sends Isak’s nerves into red alert, because that means this kiss is saying something. That means, if it were to escalate, it would be _saying something._

(What does it say? Isak’s too afraid to let the feeling form palpable words—but when he can’t help it, those words flash a lot like _love_ and _want_ and _why not_ in a big, fat, bold font behind his eyes.)

And fuck it, he wants to let the feeling cultivate. In a desperate moment, he asks for it to. He even says _please._

It’s never been awkward before. Isak’s never noticed the chipped paint of the stalls. The smell. The concrete walls and the fluorescent lights and the urinals and how everything about their surroundings screams _dirty gross bathroom_ —because that’s what it is.

Because it’s never been anything special before.

Even has this magical quality about him, though, that always takes Isak out of the moment. There’s no past or present or future. An alternate dimension, maybe. A parallel universe.

 _He is so beautiful._ Isak catches himself thinking that often. Everything about Even is beautiful. Beyond just his exterior—Even’s self-awareness and adaptability and kindness. His brilliance and his bravery. Scary words are on the tip of Isak’s tongue.

Even opens him up, and Isak can barely stand. Even’s in him, and he can barely breathe. Waves of pleasure up and down his body that don’t stop.

They do it again, and Isak can barely believe any of this is real in a delightful kind of way that also paralyzes him with horror.

How strange it is, he thinks, to be scared with a smile on your face that’s been twisted there in the midst of bliss.

•

Isak tucks Even’s drawing into the mirror on the inside door of his closet.

_I love it._

_You love it? Even asks, and they both catch the word being used._

_Yes. Isak’s face eases into a soft grin. I love it very much._

He’s fucked.

 

 

**v. dreaming**

_You’re not supposed to do this to me. You're not supposed to make me feel this way._

Even’s words do unfair things to Isak’s heart—make it melt in acid. Burn it. Set it on fire. All of these terrible sensations that do nothing but hurt as it keeps beating.

Because, if anything, Isak knows exactly how Even feels. Has felt the same way before—still does, even, in small amounts sometimes. That this is wrong. That no one is supposed to feel like this.

It’s why he’s been so careful with him. Why, during every waking moment they’re together, Isak would let Even go if he wanted.

It’s hard to think of these things, though, in the midst of this kiss.

He knows he shouldn’t get fully undressed. He knows they should go to the stall. He _knows_ all of these things, but his brain is currently a pile of mush as he holds on to Even for dear life. Back pressed against the concrete wall while Even’s fingertips dig into the soft flesh of the back of his thighs. Misses his mouth with a kiss. Falters at the weight of him for a moment before finally getting it right and making Isak black out for a moment in pleasure.

His clothes on the floor and the stalls on the other end of the bathroom are the furthest thing from his mind.

Truly lost in the moment. He can barely register Even scanning his face, listening to his sounds, or placing kisses on his chest and neck. If sex could feel like love, it would feel a lot like this.

A weak, fumbly, _don’t stop_ escapes from Isak’s lips in desperation. Even gives into his request and Isak can feel his lower body start to tighten before he wants it to.

_Don’t stop._

It means a lot of things.

Maybe Isak voicing his desires like this gives the universe the tangible evidence it needs to rip it all away.

And Isak can feel it before he sees it. The entrance to the Kjærlighetskarusell only a slit in the distance because of the rounded exterior. He sees it from his peripherals—hears it. Bright lights. Footsteps. His muscles cement before jerking away and coursing with adrenaline—his body going into fight or flight but somehow settling for unable to do anything at all.

Even. He shoves him—warns him first before snatching his clothes off the ground.

This is fine. It’s fine. It’s not the first time. Or even the second or third time. Or the fourth time? _Fifth time?_

Isak gets worried when he realizes he’s lost count.

Apparently it’s the seventh time, he learns as he buttons his pants.

He tries not to wince when he learns that. (When Even learns that.)

The fear isn’t right away. When the autopilot wears off, when Isak’s done looking down (anything to keep from looking at the stalls—from trying to see Even through them), it grows in him. Sharp and jagged in his stomach like a rough cut diamond. And like a diamond, it’s multi-faceted. Fear pressing in from all sides—getting arrested. People knowing.

What Even is thinking right now. Not being able to talk to him. Go to him.

Be with him.

(That fear has always been with Isak, though.)

He tries not to breathe, because if he does it’ll be ragged. He tries not to talk for the same reason. (Although, he can’t help the watering in his eyes, or using his elbow to wipe his nose as a nervous reflex.)

Unlike a diamond, it’s anything but brilliant.

 

 

**vi. defining**

Isak can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t turn his thoughts off. Anxiety like millions of little long-legged spiders crawl over his skin as he’s paralyzed to do anything about it. Sitting at the station—there _isn’t_ anything he can do about it.

So when he finally stumbles into the apartment, he does the one thing he knows might give him some relief.

He sparks a joint. Makes a sandwich. Falls asleep.

Dreams of Even. Like a tape on rewind—flashes of kisses and touches and glances and smiles. The ones where his eyes crinkle up. A dream has never been so sensory before—chapped lips and hair product and rough ink pen on a pad of paper. Isak can feel it. Smell it. Hear it.

There’s no plot to it. It’s just Even.

•

The words sound foreign coming out of Isak’s mouth. His face doesn’t even feel like it’s his face when he notices his lips move, or when his bleary eyes adjust to Even in front of him—still half closed from the lack of sleep and the joint.

_I don’t think we should do this anymore._

Tears cling to the back of his throat as he says it. As he watches Even walk away with a curt nod that screams confusion.

He only half means them, and the half that _does_ mean them only means them because it’s for the best.

Maybe not for his heart, no. 

But Isak lives in a world where his heart doesn’t really matter. And he’ll protect what little of it he can, even if protecting just means preserving at this point.

He’ll _preserve_ his heart. How clinical.

•

But he can’t stay away. This alone is madness.

Even says something funny in the back room of the record store. Isak can’t even remember what, but the sudden urge to kiss him is unbearable.

As soon as Jonas is out of earshot—fuck, maybe even when he isn’t—Isak steps into Even’s space and lets spontaneity take over.

To his delight, Even melts in it. Grabs at Isak like he’s _missed_ him when their lips slide together and really, he has no idea. It feels like a flood of relief and bliss; drains away the hurt and the longing for a moment or two.

They stay connected for a minute, and maybe things will be alright. Maybe Isak can have this.

_What are you doing?_

But his self-control—it’s own little voice in Isak’s head—it won’t leave him alone.

•

Isak knows he’s taking a toll on Even. The back and forth. His indecisiveness as his brain and heart refuse to communicate. He can feel it in all of their kisses and hear it in his voice. Even’s muscles and bones feel soft and heavy against him like he’s always tired.

He _sounds_ tired when he says it, stroking Isak’s cheek like they’ve got all the time in the world here in the Kjærlighetskarusell.

_I love you._

Isak’s first instinct is to melt into the bittersweet words that he’s thought a million times. But his body counteracts—tight jaw. Frozen breaths. He moves away. He snaps off the part of his brain that so desperately wants to cling to the one person he’s ever loved who can actually love him back. Because this is his worst nightmare. 

It’s so frustratingly painful to hear Even say this. (To have the bravery to say this.) Like it’s a conversation worth having when in reality it’s nothing but a reminder to Isak of what he believes he’s never allowed to have.

And the worst part is it’s all his fault—Even doesn’t deserve any of this. Kisses in concrete prisons and love confined to dark corners of Oslo. 

And then, in the midst of Isak’s circles to make sense to himself—that love is for Even but it’s not Even’s for Isak, Even says it.

_You can have me if you want._

The fear of their last encounter in the Kjærlighetskarusell is nothing compared to this.

•

Isak gives himself an ultimatum.

He knows only time will make him able to forget Even, but after four days of heaviness that will not lift from his body, Isak starts to wonder if that’s just something people tell themselves.

_Time heals all wounds._

He sneers at his ceiling at how cozy and safe that sounds. How time has done nothing for his mother. How time has done nothing but compound the feelings he has for his father. How time, which seems to move forward into progressiveness, will probably never grant him enough of it to kiss outside of the Kjærlighetskarusell.

How time, even if Isak had infinite handfuls of it to throw at an immortal clock, would never be enough to make him forget Even.

So he gets up. And he goes to find Even. And this time (he swears it to himself, _for_ himself—for Even), he won’t turn around.

•

Isak channels that blur of bravery he found within himself the first time he met Even. The first time he slipped that note into his pocket and the first time he surged forward in a kiss.

He sees Even’s shoulders sag when he rounds the corner of the record store and deafens the room as he takes the Led Zeppelin Even’s trying to drown himself in off of the record player. He wonders if the toll he’s taken on him is too deep to climb back out of.

But he has to try.

He has to be brave, just like Even—who deserves to at least know that his feelings are reciprocated.

And with that blur of bravery, Isak also channels their very first conversation.

_What do you know?_

This time, he’s on the receiving end.

Isak knows that he’s terrified. Shaking hands he tries to calm with warm touches. It’s a long-term horror he feels deep in his bones—it’s settled by Even, sitting here on the counter with calming blue eyes and fiery blue flames of hope Isak can feel radiate out of him.

Isak knows that Even is so so brave. He can see it now, as hope burns them both alive after they’ve been kicked—kicked each other—down and around so many times in circles of fear. That even now, after coming and going and coming and going again, Even’s bravery persists in a way Isak cannot fathom. It exists in a way that Isak admires.

Isak knows that he loves Even. So he tells him. The scariest thing he’s ever done in his life—to love and be loved in return.

Isak knows that this is worth it. This feeling, no matter how masked it may be at times by this fear, is worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is an epilogue of sorts.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hi!


	8. 1972

**SPRING. OSLO. 1972.**

Even’s mom has tears in her eyes when she hugs him in the entryway of his new, tiny, open-plan flat. Morning sun through the naked window panes cast early orange shadows on the cardboard boxes stacked on pallets atop the wood floor. It smells dusty in a dreamy sort of way, like an old library or a long lost log cabin. Not too unlike the record store. He wraps his arms around her shoulders, rests his head on top of hers. Only now does he realize how small she is—thin arms trying to squeeze tightly around his middle, small voice when she asks him if he’s sure he doesn’t want her to help him unpack.

He’s sure. He wants to do this by himself. It’ll be therapeutic, he thinks. Arranging his bookshelf, hanging his posters, making his bed. Everything exactly how he wants it.

“Call me when you get home from work, please,” she sniffles, loosening her grip around him and taking a step back to look her son in the eyes. “I didn’t write down your new phone number,” she remembers, patting her pockets before digging in her purse for her little notebook of contacts. She hands it to Even, along with a pen. Always prepared—she’s the kind of mother that can summon anything from her bag. “Write your address, too,” she presses, wiping her nose.

Even does, bookmarking the page by folding the corner down so she can reference it easily—not that she won’t have it memorized by the time she gets down the stairs.

They have come a long way from two years ago when Even moved back home (and not necessarily on his own terms). Right after everything took a sharp nosedive downhill, spiraling uncontrollably before a crash landing that luckily never happened. But in hindsight, he couldn’t take care of himself—his friends couldn’t take care of him, either. Not after that. There’s still a part of him, though, that’s bitter at the world for letting a handful of bad days and another handful of good days define him, make friends and family talk behind his back. Just because his bad days are a little worse than others, his good days a little better… he begrudges the gamut of his feelings for extending wider than most, but he thinks it’s hypocritical for others, who also have good and bad days, to point fingers. 

But he guesses that particular day was maybe a bit worse than just a bad day.

Maybe he wasn’t ready for it, or maybe he didn’t like feeling so powerless and out of control; maybe that’s why he held such a grudge against his mother for probably too long. Either way, that’s in the past, and Even is immensely grateful for her care.

But now, he feels refreshed and relaxed and ready.

And helplessly giddy about tonight.

The door clicks closed behind her when she leaves, and Even gets to it. The flat is asymmetrically L shaped—a little nook for the “bedroom” defined with dusty, warm grey walls. So warm, in the sun they almost look a shade of dull pink. He starts organizing the boxes and shoves the pallets over against the wall to put his mattress on. It comes together very quickly.

He doesn’t have much, and everything is cheap, but Even has a good, patient, eye. He’s collected things he’s liked over time and maybe holds on to them without a special place for a while, but he can’t let them go. Everything is colorful and eclectic and his. A sandy, orange faux velvet couch. A round, dark wood coffee table. Bowls and plates and glasses and cutlery that don’t match. A multi-color quilted bedspread on royal blue sheets. A yellow, touchtone phone fresh from the box his mom bought for him. He adorns the walls with framed posters, album covers, doodles on loose paper. It’s going to look cramped when he doesn’t have the will or want to tidy up, but he convinces himself it will be a creative mess. _His_ creative mess. His own space, finally; the desire for one has increased exponentially in the past two years.

Even saves the phone for last after a few hours of unpacking, taking it from the box and plugging it into the jack by his bed, setting it on the nightstand.

It rings immediately, but he’s not surprised. He answers it with a slight inkling. “Hello?” He asks, playful and pretty sure he knows who it is.

“You’re set up! Are you coming to work now?”

His insides melt at the sound of Isak’s voice, still two years later. He wonders if it will ever stop and prays that it doesn’t.

To say it’s been bumpy is an understatement.

Even struggles to contain himself more often than he’d like—he looks at Isak and wants to lunge at him. Wants to hold his hand when they walk down the street and kiss him goodbye whenever they part ways. Wants to scream to all of his friends and family—how crazy he is about him and how happy Isak makes him. Self-control is practiced every second, and after two years, yes, it’s strengthened, but it’s also wearing thin on the patience side of things. They can only go to the Kjærlighetskarusell just to sigh into happy, love-drunk kisses so many times before Even is exhausted by its existence.

Even hates that they can’t go on proper dates—get dressed up and go for late night dinners, hold hands at the movies, spend copious amounts of time together at normal hours of the day all in the name of avoiding suspicion. Hates when people ask him if he has a girlfriend and he can’t correct them. 

It’s also hard not to fight sometimes when the struggles they face have no predecessor. Even can’t ask for advice when there’s no one to turn to—can’t blame Isak or himself, either, when arguments stem from situations themselves. They burn out and respark over and over and over again and it is so tiring.

But it is also so unbelievably worth it.

“My shift doesn’t start for another hour,” Even laughs, checking his watch and tilting his head fondly out of instinct.

“So?” Isak asks, completely serious.

“Are you guys busy?”

“No.” Still completely serious, and not sorry about it, either.

Even licks his bottom lip before smiling coyly into the receiver. “Okay,” he plays along. “Then why would I be coming to work right now?”

There’s a half groan, half pout on Isak’s end.

“I’ll be there soon,” Even caves, hearing a happy hum on the other line before hanging up. He makes sure his new key is on his ring before locking the door, taking some broken down cardboard boxes with him to recycle.

The sun is bright through the tree branches budding with new leaves, canopying the streets. The air smells crisp and bright with new life. Even can’t help but take it as a sign. His new flat is only a ten-minute walk from the record store; he unlocks the back door when he rounds the corner by way of the alley, stepping through to see Isak and Jonas hacking away at the plastic cling on a new palette of records. It peels away with a synthetic, sticky sound.

Isak looks towards the back door as Even closes it gently behind him, lights up—Even’s heart does, too.

Jonas—ever knowing and ever sweet Jonas—thinks he hears someone in the front of the store and excuses himself, the beaded curtain chiming in his wake, the soft knocking of wooden beads. But they all know no one is here.

They’ve talked about it once, Even and Jonas. Late at night, when Even was over at their apartment mostly to see Isak but also to hang out with the three of them. Magnus was passed out in the armchair—Isak too, his head against Even’s shoulder on the couch. Empty beer bottles all over the coffee table, the radio on the lowest volume. It must have been three in the morning. 

Jonas handed Even the joint and his eyes flicked over the two of them. Even could tell it was weighing on Jonas’s mind—heavy, a curiosity he was bubbling over with but maybe too anxious to ask his best friend about. It was a brief conversation, a little over a year ago:

_“Are you guys…?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_Silence._

_“Does it bother you?”_

_“No. I think you guys are good for each other.”_

Even thinks about that one every once in awhile, now especially, as Jonas purposefully gives them some space. 

_Good for each other._

Even takes a step towards Isak with a shy smile, and Isak looks down, wiggles his toes. Even reaches out to touch his face. They kiss; more often than not initiated by both of them in time: an equal reciprocation and a desperate cherish. Longer than a peck because whenever they get the chance to those are simply impossible—never enough time—but too short to hold each other close and sigh into it. Even’s eyes flit close, they smile against each other. He feels Isak’s nose against the bridge of his own, their foreheads touching, his eyelashes on his cheek. Even tries hard to physically photograph every kiss behind safer walls—make a mental album of them.

He is left breathless after every one.

While still sarcastic—still playful and bold and brave, Isak is a lot gentler with him. Not in a way where he holds Even like he might break, or bites back words that may be too harsh—no. It’s gentle like a still river. Gentle like a baby animal. Gentle like the sun before summer. 

Time has made them care deeply about the other, time has made them get to know each other profoundly and sadly. 

Caution has taught them how to see each other from far away, caution has taught them to read each other like the spaces between words.

And patience. Patience has taught them to forgive each other, even when they mess up, because they don’t have too long to be angry. Patience has taught them to cherish every moment as it happens.

So that gentleness—Even doesn’t want to think Isak is sorry, but he knows guilt may be a part of it. The back and forth and back and forth that was the start of their relationship. But the thing is, guilt is not new to them, it never will be. They will feel guilty over and over and over again and battle that guilt maybe forever, but they are better because of it—better because they have each other; they never have to fight through it alone.

And so what if some of that guilt makes them gentler. Even feels it filter through his soul every time they kiss, that gentleness. And it feels nice. It feels like a part of them.

“Hi,” Isak whispers, the word drunk off of their kiss. He collects himself and pulls away—too short to be long enough. “How is your new place?”

“It’s small,” Even laughs, and he starts to unpack the palette with Isak as they come back down to reality. “But it all fits. And not everything is quite where I want it yet, but it’s mostly unpacked, at least.”

“I’m excited to see it,” Isak hints, unable to hide his happiness; his mouth gets tight with a smile and his eyes are sparkling in an impatient, eager sort of way.

“Tonight?” Even asks, just as impatient. They never said it out loud before, but the mutual understanding of _move in day_ also meaning _spend the night—just me and you day_ passed between them the minute Even started apartment hunting a few months ago.

Not that they’ve spent the last two years confined to the Kjærlighetskarusell—far from it. They’ve gotten clever. They’ve passed out on Mahdi’s floor with a slew of other people after a party, had a quickie in the bathroom while Jonas went out for a cigarette and once on the couch when he needed to go to the store, kissed in the record store after closing, discreetly held hands in the back of a very empty bus.

But now, as long as they’re not too suspicious or too loud, they have a safe place that isn’t strict on time or bending to the whim of happenstance.

Even can feel the atoms in the air start to move faster—his lungs buzzing as he breathes them in with a mixture of hope and anticipation.

Isak nods, chin tipping up and lips curling at the sides. “I can’t wait.” 

It’s about to be a long few hours until closing.

 

•

 

“Have you read the paper today?” Isak asks when they make their way to the front of the store, the clicking of the beads on the curtain behind them. He taps it, loosely creased at the center on the counter.

“No,” Even remembers, picking it up and leaning his hip by the register. He didn’t have time to this morning.

Isak just purses his lips like he’s trying to hide a smile, folding his arms and propping himself up next to Even to face him, their calves crossing below the line of sight. Isak taps his foot ardently, the movement jostling his hair, and Even catches his eye with an amused flicker before giving him a once over. He looks good—his jeans are light and faded from many washes, they hug him neatly around his thighs. His Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt is equally if not more worn, and Even thinks he’s seen it on Jonas a few times. The sleeves are short, Even watches Isak’s shoulder muscles tighten, how they lean down through his arms and are accentuated when he crosses them.

Isak notices him staring and giggles, flicking the back of the newspaper to egg Even on.

He straightens it out with a dramatic flip, scanning the headlines. And he sees it, in the corner, realizing Isak had it open to this very specific page for a reason. His heart rate picks up as he tries to read the words in order, excitement causing them to jumble. He has to reread it several times before the full message starts to fully sink in.

> _**14 April 1972**  
>  The Justice Council, by a 9-1 vote, repealed article 213 to decriminalize homosexual acts between consenting adults in private._

That’s it. That’s all it says. Tucked in the corner of an obscure page in the middle of the paper, right next to an announcement for a street closure and below a leasing ad for a new block of apartments. It fits so well and yet it also looks so out of place. To Even, it feels like the front page.

Isak nudges his foot, biting his bottom lip, and yeah. His apartment, right around the corner—closing, a few hours away—cannot come soon enough.

 

•

 

“What does it mean, exactly?” Even asks, dragging his feet along the pavement with his hands in his pockets as they walk, the locked door of the record store almost a block behind them now. The sun is already staying out late, dipping below the horizon well past bedtime.

They’re in a hurry, but also not. An anxious tension causes their steps to slag, causes time to move slowly as they savor the walk.

Isak knows what he’s talking about. “Not much, really,” he sighs, but it’s jaded. “We can’t get arrested, anymore. Or fined. But that doesn’t stop people from, you know.”

 _You know._ Yeah, Even knows.

He’s seen it on the streets. Has seen it in his friends when they make homophobic jokes. Has seen it everywhere he looks, now, like it’s the only thing he can see and wonders how blind he was before.

“Just in time,” Even says sarcastically, unlocking the door to the main entrance of his building and holding it open for Isak. His hands are already starting to get fumbly—his knees already starting to give out as they climb the stairs. 

Normally, he’d pull Isak away on the landing to steal a kiss or two, but the eagerness to steal many, many long kisses once his door is shut behind them vetoes that thought completely. 

On the third floor, apartment 21. “Sorry, it’s still a little unorganized,” Even apologizes, letting Isak in before himself. He locks the door behind him, and they both hear it. The sound alone makes Even’s chest tighten, makes his nerves start to dance on the edge of his bones as they tickle his muscles. It sounds better than any song he’s ever heard—the only thing that might rival it is the sound of Isak saying his name.

Isak looks around, up at the high ceilings and scanning over the furniture. At the little kitchen tucked away in the corner by the large window, and the boxes Even hasn’t unpacked yet still by the door, at the selection of posters he’s hung, at the bed.

“I think it looks great,” he says, turning his head over his shoulder to smile at Even.

Even’s looked at Isak before— _really_ looked at him. At the way his hair grows quickly in wavy curls over his ears. At the wrinkles by his lips and chin when he laughs, frowns, pouts. At the sparkle in his eyes when they share a joke laced with a private innuendo. But always from afar. Or always looking over his shoulder. Never without an achy longing or a little fear. 

But now—oh, now. Even can’t wait any longer. Can’t look at him like this anymore because Isak is _here_ and they’re _alone_ and _why is there so much space between them?_ Even takes a step into Isak’s bubble. An intimate closeness. He takes one hand and rests it on Isak’s neck, long fingers on the nape if it and his thumb over his Adam’s apple. His other cradling his jaw—he rests his forehead against Isak’s and just breathes him in with closed eyes. Not looking at Isak but _experiencing_ Isak, slowly leaning in to press their lips together. 

He hears Isak’s breath hitch and then release with a shaky sigh through his nose, feels Isak’s hands wrap around his middle, flat palms on his back that bring him in closer. Their chests pressed together, their mouths, everything. Unmoving, like a statue. Because they can do that here, now, for a moment without worry. They can hold on to each other and let everything build inside of them. 

They can take their time.

 _They can take their time._ They can take all night.

And they stay like that. A kiss that’s also an embrace—Even holding his face while Isak holds on so tight. It’s no more a kiss than it is a hug than it is both of them melting into one for a moment. Because they never get to share kisses like this—long ones that are full of love they can cherish. 

Which is just the thing. Even loves Isak so, so much. Not that he’s just realizing it—far from that. But he feels it in a safe stillness he hasn’t experienced quite like this before, with four walls and a locked door around them. It’s the kind of love he’s thankful for, as crazy as it sounds. The kind of love that makes his heart squeeze against his ribcage it’s so big. The kind of love that makes having to love so secretly worth it. Because he feels it trickle through his veins. He feels it ferment in his bones. And he feels it totally on another level than physical, too, somewhere in his consciousness—his subconsciousness. In the atoms of the air around them, in the spaces between all the letters that spell _Isak_ in his head. So he tells him.

“I love you,” Even whispers, breaking away just barely so that his lips still brush Isak’s at the tips when he says it; he doesn’t open his eyes quite yet and he feels Isak’s cheeks tighten into a smile under his fingers at the words. 

Which he returns immediately. “I love you,” Isak repeats. “I love you.” He says it again, like a mantra. 

And then Even is smiling and kissing him again, this time with an open mouth so their tongues can meet, so their lips can slide together. He feels his body rise a degree in temperature, his legs start to become less solid. And sure, they have all the time in the world right now, but he needs to show Isak how loved he is immediately. Even pulls him towards the bed, lays him on it. Watches him giggle into the sheets and bounce on the mattress while he hooks a knee over him to straddle and _wow._

It’s all starting to catch up with Even. That he’s living every fantasy he’s ever had. And he was turned on before, sure—it doesn’t take much to get him going when he’s around Isak—but he feels that clenching in his stomach and hips all the way down his thighs, feels his pants start to get tighter in a way that makes him have to remember to breathe. 

Isak looks up at him, his curls framing his face on the pillow, his green eyes dilated as they scan the features of Even’s face, lingering on his lips. 

_He looks so good._ Even can hardly believe this is real life—that he gets to take Isak _home_ today and _love him_ on his _bed._ For the very first time.

Even leans back up, two knees over the side of Isak’s thighs as he sits gently on them, body straight, to remove his own shirt. Isak props himself on one elbow before sitting up and lets Even remove his, too. 

Isak starts to kiss his chest, soft lips over his collarbones, his nipples. Little bites and exhales accentuated with fingers trailing his sides, his ribs—gentle yet firm. Even molds like putty in his hands, is malleable to every touch. He lets Isak hold him, kiss him, worship him as his skin starts to get hot. 

Even kisses the top of Isak’s head, breathes in through his nose and smells his hair—out again through his mouth, shuddering a bit as Isak slips his hands down the back of his pants.

And suddenly there is no room left anywhere in them—Even’s lower body feels heavy and tight with its own heartbeat as he sits in Isak’s lap. When he preens into Isak’s touch, shifting his hips and arching his back, purposefully scooting his lap up so his hard-on presses against Isak’s stomach, he starts to get dizzy behind his eyelids at how _intimate_ this is. At how comfortable he is and how safe he feels.

 _He feels safe._ It brings more joy to him than safety might to anyone else. He hopes Isak feels safe, too. That’s all he wants—it’s all he deserves right now. Even just wants to make him feel so good and so loved and so safe.

Because for all of the shit he’s been through—all of the love Isak has never experienced in safety—fuck. He deserves it so, so much.

Isak lets out a little noise, Even feels it reverberate through his skin and light it alive, hardwiring him to the moment.

“Clothes?” Isak breathes through a kiss to his sternum. It has to be a question because it’s brand new to both of them. 

It’s always been pants shoved down to their knees, shirts on, marveling at the skin they can see. Quickly, because they can’t take too long; just kissing for a minute, they don’t have a lot of time.

Even’s only seen Isak completely naked just that once and—

He doesn’t like to think about that day.

“Yeah,” Even breathes, squeezing Isak’s shoulders before rolling off of him and standing by the bed. He tries to undo the button of his jeans but is interrupted by Isak pulling him forward by his belt loops. He kisses his stomach, right above the hem, and Even has no idea how Isak is so composed right now. Lips on his hip bone, now, Isak undoes the button and slowly drags the zipper down. 

Even feels his legs start to tremble. He is simultaneously in awe, a wreck, turned on. 

Isak slips his fingers down Even’s jeans and boxers once they’re undone, catching the hem on his knuckles and sliding them below his knees. Even, stumbly, removes his feet from the openings until he’s standing there, completely naked. 

Isak pauses, and for a minute Even thinks something is wrong. He hears Isak swallow dryly, feels his eyes burn a slow trail from his ankles to his eyes—wide and dilated. Even can see the redness patch over Isak’s skin along his cheeks, neck, chest. Isak undoes his own pants hurriedly, and, admittedly, not so gracefully, while lifting his hips to slide them off and under him, throwing them somewhere on the floor. 

“Come back here,” Isak smiles, but it comes out kind of choked up. He reaches his arms out for Even, grabs his hands and pulls him back on top of his lap into a kiss. 

_Woah._ Even feels Isak hard against his stomach, feels all of their skin flushing together, feels parts of them connected that have never been connected before—the fronts of their thighs and their laps—and it’s all _so much_ all at once. 

And Isak must think so, too—he lets out a whimper that breaks somewhere in his throat and Even is _so_ turned on and _so_ in love. Fuck. He doesn’t know where to begin to express it all.

Isak leans back, Even follows him—upper body propped up on his elbow and his legs on either side of Isak’s hips, his whole lower half flushed against him. He feels his blood pressure rise, feels himself get harder if that’s possible when their dicks line up and Even is _pulsing._ His whole body is throbbing and his head is light and his stomach is a stone, sinking to the bottom of a pool. 

He does not think it’s possible to be any more turned on, but he is wrong. Isak parts his lips and licks into his mouth. Their tongues brush against each other. Even is making a sound he might find embarrassing but he can’t control it. He feels Isak run his hands down the back of his thighs, over his ass, grabbing a handful and spreading just a little bit. 

Okay, he moans. 

Even breaks the kiss to look at Isak. Sweaty, wild curls brushed back over his forehead, behind his ears. The muscles of his chest and shoulders writhing under patchy red skin. His face framed on Even’s _pillow_ and his body on his _bed._

They have never built it up so long, Even realizes. They have never been able to make it explosive just because they could; never had the option to really focus, connect, savor.

Isak looks up at him, smiling and a little out of breath, and Even marvels for just a second longer before kissing him again, moving just a little bit, opening his mouth. He feels Isak’s cock twitch against his hip, applies just a bit of pressure by putting more of his body weight on Isak and grinds slowly.

Isak exhales, his mouth is just open against Even’s, breathing heavy with a little whimper every time Even moves his hips. 

“Shit, Even, do you—”

“Drawer,” Even manages, breaking away and nodding towards the bedside table.

Isak reaches over, fumbling with the knob and pulling, shuffling his hand inside before he grabs the lube—Even kisses his stretched out neck, tastes the sweat on it, slides his lips down to his collarbone.

Isak catches him in another kiss, grabbing the back of his thighs and urging him to bend his knees, to kneel above Isak and scoot up. When he does, Isak runs his hands up his legs, over his ass, rests on his hips—slides his hands up his torso, touches him everywhere and watches his body shake—Even is shaking. He feels hot in his ears and heavy in his waist and blurry behind his eyes.

“You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen,” Isak somehow manages to say.

Even’s heart starts to beat faster, he’s never ever felt like this before: unexplainably, unmeasurably in love in a room where there are no rules on how to express it.

“Are you ready?” Isak asks, he’s coating his fingers in lube, and when Even nods, he slips his hand between Even’s legs, which open a little more to let him, and Isak starts to massage him around his opening.

Not a lot of pressure yet, but Even’s eyes roll back already; his elbows, which are locked to keep him up as he bends on top of Isak, start to soften like the bones don’t exist anymore. 

Isak starts to kiss his chest softly, he hums. “How does it feel?”

Admittedly, physically, not too different than any other time Isak has opened him up, but coupled with all of this? A position they’ve never been able to try before, clothes completely gone, the halo of Isak’s curls resting on the quilt of his bed, the love and safety in the air around them—

“Amazing,” Even breathes, and it’s true. He arches his back to preen into Isak’s touch, asking for more. Slowly, carefully, Isak slips a finger inside him and Even lets a sound bubble up in his throat and escape with a short moan.

“I love when you feel good,” Isak whispers, open lips all over Even’s chest and neck. He drags his finger down, works Even a few times before pushing a second one up.

Even feels himself stretch in a tight pain, but it feels good; the anxiety that usually revolves around them is completely gone, and he’s able to relax into it. Be loud. Breathe heavy in Isak’s ear at a third finger, more lube—everything slippery and wet—his hips following the motion because he wants more. Isak’s cock is so hard against the inside of his thigh, he feels it stir every time he makes a sound, every time he rolls his hips—it’s so tempting. Even wants to sink down on it and watch Isak’s face.

“I want you,” Even breathes, slipping down to kiss Isak on the mouth, to lick against his lips until their tongues meet and he just feels it all inside of him—how much he loves Isak and how generous he is to him and that gentleness all around them. Isak deserves everything. “Just like this.”

Even reaches for the lube, coats his hand, reaches down below himself until he feels Isak’s dick and grips it lightly, sliding up wet and slow. 

Isak pants, throws his head back and his arm to run his fingers through his own hair because otherwise he wouldn’t be able to keep still. His limbs are all elongated, his skin is red and a little sweat collects by his bellybutton. His muscles are tight and they squeeze around his middle and down his legs when Even touches him.

The sheets below him are wrinkled and twisted up, Isak uses the hand not in his hair to clutch at them. 

After just enough friction to get Isak lubed up, Even positions himself over him, still gripping Isak to line up and guide him in. When the tip of his cock rests on Even’s rim, he pauses for a moment, looking at Isak. At this man in his bed he himself has not even slept in yet. At the look on his face, a breathless smile over his lips as he relaxes, moves both hands to Even’s shoulders, slips them down his upper arms, over his chest, resting on his waist as if to guide him—as if he wants to feel every movement of Even.

Even puts all his weight on him, feels his insides make room for Isak and winces through the stretching, but Isak massages his sides, the soft parts on the inside of his legs, the fleshy skin where his hips spread out and meet the back of his thighs. He hears Isak stutter through a high pitched groan, and he opens his eyes.

Isak, a little impatiently, is tugging up gently at his waist for him to move, so Even does, slowly, and fuck it feels so good on the way up—he feels the long slide of Isak’s dick until the head starts to pull at the tight ring of muscle—almost as good as it feels on the way back down.

He rolls his hips again. Again. Feels Isak inside of him and the pressure it creates, leans forward to arch his back and get the angle just right.

It’s a struggle for Even to keep his eyes from flitting closed in ecstasy, but he manages, focusing on Isak, who can’t decide if he wants to touch Even everywhere, card his fingers through his own hair, or pull at the sheets. His eyes trail Even all over—his face, down his torso, his dick hard and flushed against his stomach. Isak licks his lips when he sees it, reaches forward to grip the base and stroke him in time with Even’s hips, which begin to falter at the sudden burst of double pleasure.

Even leans forward more to kiss Isak on the mouth, their lips sliding between breaths, letting all of the love leak through—the thankfulness and the security heightened by this new experience that is now their right.

He can’t help it—it starts before he can even warn Isak, but suddenly the backs of his eyelids are so so dark and his stomach is melting into his thighs and his nerves create a razor straight line through the center of his body, jolting him before it dissipates in little, satisfying particles. He’s coming in Isak’s hand and on his chest and between the two of them while his body laxes, while his body stops for a moment—and Isak thrusts his hips up, Even can feel him come inside him just a moment after he starts to come down from his high.

They keep kissing—Even moves his lips over the corner of Isak’s mouth, who’s stopped kissing him back to breathe. But he’s smiling, Even can feel it, the corner of Isak’s mouth tugging up. Even gets off of him, winces a bit, and they wipe their hands on the sheets. That little detail makes Even’s heart swell up into his throat.

Even pulls him close, side by side—threads their legs together and _they get to just lie here._ It’s the best part of it; they don’t have to rush to put clothes back on, they don’t have to hurry away. Even just gets to pull Isak close, his skin everywhere, and keep kissing him without a scramble. The way it’s supposed to be.

He tucks a curl behind Isak’s ear, kisses his cheek before craning his neck back to look him in the eyes.

Which are smiling just as bright as the rest of him, a little red, even, with happiness. “This is so nice,” Isak sighs, nudging his head along Even’s hand, his thumb trailing over Isak’s cheekbone again and again. There’s a choke in it, like it’s all settling down around them—the realization that this is now their normal.

“Good,” Even giggles, wrapping him up tight. “Because you’re not leaving. You’re staying in here with me forever.”

Isak kisses him unexpectedly, his hands all over Even’s skin making him feel cherished and loved. He tries to kiss him back with just as much appreciativeness, hoping it conveys half as much feeling.

“Can I?” Isak asks, and it is a question. Like he might actually be afraid of the answer.

And Even just smiles. At the dusty grey walls almost pink with the sunset. At the patterned quilt bunched up behind Isak’s head. At the blue sheets wrinkled around them. And, most importantly, at Isak, lying in his bed, his soft halo of curls and his pointy features and his green eyes—all of the things that first caught Even’s eye two years ago aged just a little bit. He feels somehow thankful for all of this ache his heart has been through. “You can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Naipan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naipan/pseuds/Naipan) for helping me find the exact day this law was repealed and pointing me in the right direction to find some other details ❤️
> 
> And I'd like to say thanks to everyone who really did want to read this scene—I didn't know how badly I wanted to write it until I started. And it feels really, _really_ good to end this story on a happier, higher note. It feels a lot more wrapped up. It feels a lot more hopeful, I think. So thank you for reading.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed ❤️


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